


Inchoate

by sshysmm



Category: And Then We Danced (2019)
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bisexual Character, Bisexual Irakli, Break Up, Canon-Typical Homophobia, Closeted Character, Coming Out, Eventual Smut, F/M, Family Drama, Getting Back Together, Homophobia, M/M, Mutual Pining, Non-Graphic Violence, Post-Canon, Post-Canon Fix-It, Reunion Sex, Sick Character, Slow Burn, Staying in Georgia, Terminal Illnesses, finding community, longfic, religious homophobia, when levan g said doing the film made him decide to stay in georgia yeah that
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-31
Updated: 2021-02-16
Packaged: 2021-03-06 04:28:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 69
Words: 144,541
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25937428
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sshysmm/pseuds/sshysmm
Summary: Irakli goes back to Batumi to do all the things that are expected of him: get married, get a proper job, do what's right by his parents.It should be fine, going back to how life was before.It isn't.But how does someone who's always wanted to please, who's used to drifting along without causing a fuss, find the courage to pursue what he wants?-Longfic, slow burn, eventual reunion, relationship-establishing, with a happy ending in Georgia. Because the defiance of this film still leaves me reeling and I wanted to try and imagine a future for them there.Shortcuts for those who want them: Irakli is back in Tbilisi from Ch. 33; Merab is around from Ch. 36; there's smut at Chs. 37 and 57.For snippets from chapters I haven't posted yet have a look onmy tumblr under the tag 'atwd fic'.Massive THANKS toerinaceinamy wonderful and very forgiving beta.
Relationships: David Lominadze/Sopo (And Then We Danced), Irakli (And Then We Danced)/Merab Lominadze, Irakli (And Then We Danced)/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 34
Kudos: 32





	1. Contents

**Author's Note:**

> Guide to recurring OCs:  
> Elizabeth - Irakli's mother  
> Vano (Ivan) - Irakli's father
> 
> Zinaida - the girl in Batumi, Irakli's fiancée  
> Nikholoz - Zinaida's father  
> Giorgi - Zinaida's cousin
> 
> Shota - Irakli's best friend in Batumi  
> Ivan - another friend  
> Viktor - another friend
> 
> Tamar - Elizabeth's friend and the grocery store  
> Tekle - Zinaida's friend

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Contents page, chapter by chapter (brief) summaries, with specific content notes. Let me know if you think I need to add anything!
> 
> Hope it helps with navigating this monster, not least as I understand there are some re-readers out there :))

General content note: It’s never addressed as such, but in Batumi and shortly thereafter Irakli is suffering particularly hard from depression and anxiety.

More generally, the society is Orthodox Christian and the church is homophobic and very unfriendly towards gay rights; older generations in particular are still very religious and hold the same ideas about ‘traditional values’. LGBT+ identities are a protected characteristic in Georgian law, but the prosecution of hate crimes against LGBT+ people isn’t really taken seriously, the law is more like lip-service to European allies. See, for example, the intimidation of the Tbilisi Pride group when they tried to hold a rally in 2019 (there’s a really great documentary about this called March for Dignity).

All of which is to say that canon-typical slurs and attitudes are used, but there are specific notes on chapters where that features, given below. Family dynamics are what I would call dysfunctional at best – for all the worship of the nuclear, heterosexual family in Georgian society I have yet to encounter a single happy, functional example of this in any of the Georgian films I’ve seen.

Oh, also everyone is smoking, pretty much all the time. But I can’t imagine anyone who saw the film minds that in fic about it.

Disclaimer: I am not Georgian. In fact, I have never been there. I’m sure that’s blindingly obvious to anyone who has been, or is Georgian and reads this (to you, particularly, I apologise for all mistakes and misunderstandings). But the internet is an amazing place and I try to research what I can!

Can I dedicate a fic, is that too corny? This is pretty much dedicated to the Pride activists working for their rights in Georgia, anyway, I’m in awe of their hard work and bravery, and I wish them all the success they need to be able to live freely, safely and happily in their home. When I finally get to visit Tbilisi, I can’t wait to buy a sticker from them in a park somewhere. გაიმარჯვეთ!

  1. Contents page
  2. After David and Sopo’s wedding, Irakli stops to replace his earring and thinks that’s the end of it. (Character: Irakli; Irakli POV)
  3. The following day, he finds that thoughts of Merab linger more than he’d expected. (Characters: Irakli, Grandmother Rusudan; Irakli POV)
  4. On the bus back to Batumi, he realises the breakup is going to keep hurting. (Characters: Irakli, minor OC; Irakli POV)
  5. Irakli visits his father in hospital and has to explain why he’s not auditioning. (Characters: Irakli, his mother Elizabeth, his father Vano; Irakli POV). _Medical setting and content_.
  6. Sharing an ice-cream with his fiancée, the reality of what’s expected of him starts to hit home. (Characters: Irakli, his fiancée Zinaida; Irakli POV)
  7. His mother arranges work dancing at a wedding for Irakli. He has to explain why he no longer has his chokha for dancing in. (Characters: Irakli, Elizabeth; Irakli POV)
  8. After performing at the wedding, Irakli and his friends meet on the sea front and Irakli realises how separate he now feels from them. (Characters: Irakli, Zinaida, his friends Shota, Viktor and Ivan; Irakli POV). _Alcohol mention_.
  9. At the hospital with his father, Irakli faces some awkward questions. (Characters: Irakli, Vano; Irakli POV). _Medical setting and content_.
  10. Elizabeth fears that, whatever the reason, Irakli’s distant manner will interfere with his engagement. (Characters: Irakli, Elizabeth; Elizabeth POV)
  11. Irakli dreams of a possible future and it makes him reconsider things. (Characters: Irakli, dream version of Merab, Elizabeth; Irakli POV)
  12. Realising that he’s in no state to marry someone, Irakli tries to encourage Zinaida to break off the engagement. (Characters: Irakli, Zinaida, her father Nikoloz, her sister; Irakli POV)
  13. Time passes, and Irakli becomes more and more dissatisfied with life in Batumi. (Characters: Irakli, other Batumi OCs; Irakli POV)
  14. Irakli meets Zinaida for lunch and receives news about his father. (Characters: Irakli, Zinaida; Irakli POV)
  15. Vano takes a turn for the worse, and Irakli finds himself with more responsibility than he feels ready for. (Characters: Irakli, Elizabeth; Irakli POV). _Medical setting and content_.
  16. Elizabeth expresses her disappointment that Vano won’t see Irakli get married. (Characters: Irakli, Elizabeth; Irakli POV)
  17. Before Vano is brought home for palliative care, Irakli makes the most of his last night in his own room. (Characters: Irakli; Irakli POV). _Sexual content, T/M_.
  18. Elizabeth persuades Irakli to attend a church service with her. Acquaintances and priests alike have questions about his decisions. (Characters: Irakli, minor OCs Joni and Keti, a priest; Irakli POV)
  19. Vano is brought back to the apartment, Irakli moves his stuff out of his room. He hears about some of the changes there have been at the main ensemble in Tbilisi. (Characters: Irakli, Elizabeth, Shota; Irakli POV). _Medical content_.
  20. The meeting with Zinaida’s father that Irakli has been putting off. (Characters: Irakli, Nikoloz; Irakli POV)
  21. Irakli’s last day dancing for the Batumi ensemble; he gets some more information about what happened at the auditions for the main ensemble. (Characters: Irakli, his dance teacher Givi, Shota; Irakli POV)
  22. His first day working for Zinaida’s family on a construction project. (Characters: Irakli, Zinaida’s cousin Giorgi, minor OCs, Elizabeth; Irakli POV)
  23. Irakli has been working hard at the construction site for a while; Zinaida borrows her sister’s car for some privacy for the two of them. (Characters: Irakli, Zinaida; Zinaida POV)
  24. Irakli needs to make a decision about how willing he is to lie to Zinaida – it ends badly. (Characters: Irakli, Zinaida; Irakli POV). _Lead-up to sex, not-quite-dubcon. Excruciating awkwardness, arguments_.
  25. To avoid thinking about what he’s done, Irakli goes round to watch the football with his friends. They go out drinking and dancing, and inhibitions get forgotten. (Characters: Irakli, Shota, Viktor, Ivan; Irakli POV). _Drinking to excess, misogyny, homophobia_.
  26. Drunk and unsubtle, Irakli’s friends bring him back to his mother’s apartment. (Characters: Elizabeth, Shota, Viktor, Ivan, passed out Irakli; Elizabeth POV). _Homophobic language_.
  27. The following day, Irakli has some things to explain to his mother. (Characters: Irakli, Elizabeth; Irakli POV). _Hangover, vomiting, homophobia_.
  28. Elizabeth hopes that the ritual of confession will help her son. (Characters: Irakli, Elizabeth, priest, minor OC Joni; Irakli POV). _Religious homophobia_.
  29. Distance grows between Elizabeth and Irakli, but a phonecall from his friend Shota reminds Irakli he needs to think about what he’s going to do now. (Characters: Irakli, Elizabeth, Shota; Irakli POV). _Homophobia, arguments with parents_.
  30. The Monday after a dreadful weekend, Irakli returns to his job, hopeful that his indiscretions might be overlooked. (Characters: Irakli, Giorgi, minor OCs; Irakli POV). _Homophobic language and violence – not described explicitly, but still directly._
  31. Elizabeth, worried for him, tries to get him to talk to a priest about his problems. (Characters: Irakli, Elizabeth, priest; Irakli POV). _Descriptions of injury_.
  32. Irakli goes to Shota’s place, unable to rest at home. (Characters: Irakli, Shota, Zinaida; Irakli POV). _Some mention of injuries, references to homophobia._
  33. The bus back to Tbilisi arrives late, and not wanting to wake his grandmother, Irakli goes to the only other address he knows. (Characters: Irakli, Elizabeth, Shota, David, Sopo, David and Merab’s mother Inga Deyda and their grandmother Nona; Irakli POV).
  34. Irakli and David share a cigarette – and some news. (Characters: Irakli, David; Irakli POV)
  35. In Tbilisi, Irakli tries to piece together employment. A phonecall from Shota offers an unexpected opportunity. (Characters: Irakli, Shota; Irakli POV)
  36. A long-anticipated reunion. (Characters: Irakli, Merab; Irakli POV)
  37. Merab stays, after going back to Irakli’s for supper. (Characters: Rusudan, Irakli, Merab; Irakli POV). _Sexual content, E._
  38. Morning-after fluff – Irakli lets himself hope things can be like they were last summer. (Characters: Irakli, Merab; Irakli POV)
  39. Irakli has lunch with David, Sopo and David and Merab’s mother and grandmother. He understands more about Merab’s relationship with them. (Characters: Irakli, David, Sopo, Inga Deyda, Nona; Irakli POV)
  40. Irakli re-auditions for the youth ensemble. (Characters: Irakli, Aleko, Beso; Irakli POV)
  41. At the studio, he sees Nino and learns even more about the things that happened while he was away. (Characters: Elizabeth, Irakli, Aleko, Luka, Nino; Irakli POV). _Parental angst._
  42. More news from Nino – Irakli starts to think he shouldn’t interfere with Merab’s new way of life. (Characters: Irakli, Nino; Irakli POV)
  43. Mary and Nino catch up on their own gossip. (Characters: Mary, Nino; Mary POV)
  44. After what she’s heard from Nino, Mary tries to get more information from Merab. (Characters: Mary, Merab, Merab’s father Ioseb; Mary POV)
  45. Irakli has made himself believe that he will only disrupt things for Merab, and he avoids meeting up. He and Nino go to watch a Christmas performance of the main ensemble with the other youth dancers. (Characters: Irakli, Nino, Luka; Irakli POV)
  46. In a bar, Irakli hears yet another side of things from Luka and the other guys. (Characters: Irakli, Luka, the other male ensemble dancers; Irakli POV). _Homophobic language, alcohol, references to violence, panic attack._
  47. Irakli makes his way to the bar Merab works at. (Characters: Irakli, Mate, minor OCs, Merab; Irakli POV). _Alcohol, reference to hospital and implied homophobic violence_.
  48. A thawing with Elizabeth. (Characters: Irakli, Rusudan, Elizabeth; Irakli POV). _Some homophobic language and attitudes_.
  49. A new year’s surprise. (Characters: Irakli, minor OCs, Rusudan, Merab; Irakli POV)
  50. A mutual misunderstanding. (Characters: Irakli, Merab; Irakli POV). _Sexual content, E._
  51. In the morning, Irakli tries to claim he made a mistake, while Merab tries to persuade him to be brave. (Characters: Irakli, Merab, Rusudan, Elizabeth; Irakli POV). _References to homophobic language, microaggressions, parental illness._
  52. Irakli shares a childhood memory with Merab. (Characters: Irakli, Merab, Vano, Rusudan; Irakli POV)
  53. Rehearsal with the theatre group. Mary and Merab catch up. (Characters: Mary, Merab, minor OCs Ali and Lela; Mary POV). _Brief mention of the situation in Chechnya, references in the notes_.
  54. Irakli attends Sopo’s birthday party in a restaurant. He and Merab dance a kintouri together. (Characters: Irakli, Sopo, David, Nino, Inga Deyda, Nona, Mary, Merab; Irakli POV).
  55. David shares some of his worries with Irakli and with Merab. (Characters: Irakli, David, Merab; Irakli POV)
  56. Irakli, Merab, Mary and Nino go out and have fun together. (Characters: Irakli, Merab, Mary, Nino, minor OCs in the bar; Irakli POV)
  57. Back at Irakli’s, Merab frets about their future together. Oblivious, Irakli charms him however he can. (Characters: Irakli, Merab, Mate; Merab POV). _Sexual content, E._
  58. Merab enjoys a lie-in with Irakli before he has to go back to his father’s flat. Ioseb presses him about his plans for the future. (Characters: Irakli, Merab, Ioseb; Merab POV)
  59. Irakli inherits Mary’s old phone and proves to Merab he’s going to be better about responding to messages now. (Characters: Irakli, Merab, minor OCs; Irakli POV)
  60. It’s time to summon up his courage and meet Merab’s friends. Irakli finds common interests and learns to relax into a routine with Merab. (Characters: Irakli, Merab, Mate, minor OCs; Irakli POV). _General drinking, clubbing etc. Levan Akin said he didn’t show the whole hedonistic side of Bassiani because it was his ‘Swedish’ way to tread the middle ground, and I’m trying to follow tactfully in his footsteps…_
  61. Merab worries about his ambitions to apply for the national dance academy. He realises he still feels bitter about the national ensemble, and it’s hard to talk to Irakli about it. Mary resolves to sort things out. (Characters: Merab, Mary; Merab POV)
  62. Mary and Merab demonstrate their dances for Ali’s play. Irakli is impressed – and Mary sees a new side of him. (Characters: Mary, Merab, Irakli, Ali, minor OCs; Mary POV)
  63. Merab still can’t work out how to talk to Irakli about his intentions, but there’s still a lot to be happy about. (Characters: Irakli, Merab minor OCs; Merab POV)
  64. Irakli receives news that makes him realise the depth of his feelings. (Characters: Irakli, minor characters Ana and Salome, Rusudan, Merab, minor OCs; Irakli POV). _Fire, crowds, police and military presence._
  65. Every relationship has its first major argument: Irakli is worried about Merab’s health, Merab is protective of his independence. (Characters: Irakli, Merab; Irakli POV). _Sexual content, T._
  66. Irakli has important conversations with his grandmother and mother and covers for Merab at work. (Characters: Irakli, Rusudan, Merab, Elizabeth; Irakli POV)
  67. Merab is ill in the wake of the fire and receives an unexpected visitor (Characters: Merab, Irakli, Ioseb; Merab POV). _General illness – fever, chest infection._
  68. After a day of good care, Merab is impatient for things to return to normal (Characters: Ioseb, Merab, Irakli, Merab POV). _Sexual content, E_.
  69. Irakli becomes aware of how deep his feelings run (Characters: Irakli, Merab, Irakli POV).




	2. Chapter 2

Halfway up the hill the cemetery was built on, without really deciding to do so, Irakli stopped and sat down on the end of one of the large family plots. Below him, Tbilisi slumbered fitfully, draped in its warm orange glow. There were pockets of merriment among the buildings, but in the cemetery he was insulated by silence.

Irakli unfurled his clenched fist and looked at the little ring of metal that had left a red echo on his skin. Carefully, deliberately, his fingers feeling large and clumsy, he clicked the earring open and raised it to its place.

Enough time had passed since he'd last worn it that he felt a pinch as he forced it back in. He hissed and sucked the drop of blood that came away on his finger, and it seemed right that there should be a wound - something to counteract the numbness in his body, the emptiness of his mind.

He smoked a cigarette, staring down the hill and seeing nothing, thinking that he felt nothing.

His ear throbbed and felt hot and irritated around the earring.

He smoked another, and a third, and then he stood and looked down on the city before turning towards his grandmother's flat.

That wasn't so bad, he told himself. There had been breakups before, and this one really wasn't much to speak of: no crying, no shouting, no begging or pleading. Merab had even congratulated him on his engagement. He hadn’t seemed that cut up about it. But then, it was easier to reason with a guy, to be certain you were on the same page. No games, no hidden agendas, just two grown-ups, acting reasonably.

You didn't get into something like that without knowing that it couldn't last, right?

Irakli let himself into the apartment and tiptoed past the couch.

He checked beneath the blanket to see his grandmother breathing peacefully.

"At least you'll have your bed back soon, grandma," he murmured.


	3. Chapter 3

In the morning, Irakli's grandmother seemed sprightly and had a playful twinkle in her eye.

Irakli, who had not slept, moved heavy-limbed, heavy-lidded around the kitchen, following the same instructions she gave every day for her breakfast.

He was just placing some figs in a bowl when she decided to speak up.

The spoon clattered over the edge of the dish and fell to the ground when she said, in her sing-song, childish way, "Merab!"

Irakli looked at the door; he looked out of the window.

Muttering at the fig syrup down his jeans and bending to retrieve the spoon, he gave his grandmother a look of reproach.

"What was that for?"

"It's a nice name, don't you think?" she mused.

Irakli placed the figs down in front of her and sat on the other side of the table, feeling off-balance and tired.

"It's a nice name," he agreed, meeting her innocent, thoughtless smile.

She repeated it to herself as she had on that other occasion, "Merab, Merab, Merab..." until Irakli thought he would scream if he heard it again. The only reason he knew she had not picked it up from something he had said in his sleep was because he knew he hadn’t slept: he had lain there, astonished at the realisation - which had come far too late - that he might have had Merab in his own bed on that morning a few days ago if he had been bold enough to make a move.

He had spent all night trying to work out what it would have changed, but there was no answer to be found. He was left only with the inconvenient ache that told him he wanted Merab there now, with him. He wanted to hold him like he had at the summerhouse and to say sorry for the news he had delivered yesterday after the wedding. He wanted to know Merab was hurting like he was and missed Irakli as much as Irakli already missed him.


	4. Chapter 4

The feeling that he had made a grotesque, irreversible mistake only gathered weight as the journey back to Batumi approached. He kept forgetting to respond to the questions of the person selling the tickets until they asked whether he was stoned and threatened to make him wait for a later bus.

Irakli sat in the first available seat, an aisle seat next to a man of indeterminate middle age, who grunted in annoyance at having to shift his leg to accommodate Irakli. Irakli held his rucksack to his chest like it was a lover and stared at the seatback ahead. What he was feeling reminded him of the time he'd broken a bone as a child: there was no escaping the pain, but if he could just stay still he might avoid its attention for a little longer. Eventually it would give way to something else, but until then all he could do was move carefully, clench his teeth, try not to think of it - though all his thoughts seemed to want to hammer away at the ache, like flies bumping stupidly against a windowpane.

His phone buzzed in his pocket a few hours into the journey, and he felt the small hairs on his body stand to attention as he reached for it. His heart had started to pump fast, and his mouth was dry when he unlocked the screen.

_Mum:_

_Was your bus today or tomorrow?_

He let out a breath he hadn’t known he'd been holding onto.

 _Today_ , he typed, pressed send, and leaned his head back against the seat as though exhausted.

"First time away from home?" the man next to him asked gruffly.

Irakli looked at him from the corner of his eye, not moving his head. It was important not to move, in case the pain caught up with him.

"No. I'm going home, actually."

The man's brow furrowed and he blew into his moustache. "Marriage. It's the only way out from under their roof, son."

Irakli smiled thinly. "So I hear."


	5. Chapter 5

"What are you doing back here? Didn't you have a big audition?"

Every word was a struggle, but Irakli's father forced each wheezing sound out with determination. It made it hard to tell whether he meant to be belligerent or not.

"Good to see you too," Irakli responded, glancing at his mother across the bed. She raised her eyebrows: an _I told you he'd ask_ was legible in the worried gleam of her eyes.

"Don't you remember, Vano? He's coming home, he missed us too much."

Irakli's father breathed with a rasping effort, holding an oxygen mask to his grey, sagging face as he studied his son. His hand - knotted and scarred by countless hours of labour - only lowered the mask when he was certain he had the strength to say what he wanted to say. "You shouldn't give up an opportunity like that. Do you want to end up like me?"

Irakli swayed a little as he shrugged, his elbows on his knees, leaning forward. "You're a pretty neat guy."

His father waved his free hand dismissively and turned his head on the pillow, his eyes wide and watery, appealing to Irakli's mother. He didn't gather his breath quite so well this time.

"Tell him...tell him...you can manage. We can manage."

She smiled and helped him to replace the mask over his face.

Irakli knotted his fingers together between his legs and watched them. He wasn't oppressed by the fear of becoming like that - he thought they were sweet, in their own way, and they'd always got on well enough. He had too much of the confidence of his age to think he'd wreck his body like his father had if he ended up in the same line of work - standards and materials had changed, the country aspired to be seen as a peer by places that championed employee rights and healthy workplaces. Truthfully he did not believe that things were as bad now as they had been for his father.

Still, for the first time, as he looked at the worry in his mother's face, he sensed the enormous responsibility that came with sharing one's life with another person. The realisation felt like an uncomfortably bright light, or a blow to the chest - like something pressing hard in a line against his sternum - and Irakli bit his lip to stop his eyes from stinging. There was only one time he could think of where he had felt anything like it, and it had been in the shadow of an old kvevri, with another warm body held to his, in the aftermath of something new and good. He had buried his face in the soft skin of Merab's neck, stroked the muscles of his back with such tenderness, and let himself long to hold onto him forever.

But you didn't get into something like that without knowing that it couldn't last, right?


	6. Chapter 6

"So - what _is_ up with you?"

It was a warm day, but the breeze on the boulevard was chilly. Zinaida wore his jacket around her shoulders and clutched the ice cream he had bought her, but she was having to make all the conversation herself, and impatience edged her voice.

"I told you, I'm just tired." Irakli shrugged, his hands wedged in his pockets, jaw set against the cool air.

"You got back days ago."

"I haven't been sleeping well."

"Batumi's too quiet for you now?" Most of the usual playfulness was absent from her voice, and she sounded bitter.

Irakli didn't have any interest in a fight - but nor did he have the energy required for the tactful avoidance of one. "No," he said quietly. "Batumi's just fine."

He evaded her scrutiny by bending to light a cigarette and turning away from the Black Sea to shelter the flame.

"I don't know why you came back if you're so unhappy. Why didn't you just go to the audition?"

"You know why I came back. Besides - I missed you," he grumbled around the filter of the cigarette, making a show of choosing the right pocket to put his lighter back into.

Zinaida laughed drily and swirled her tongue over the top of the cone of ice cream. Irakli watched the gesture and wondered what had happened to the version of himself who had once felt an instant response to Zinaida's charms. She had beautiful rose-coloured lips, her olive skin was dappled with freckles and her chin had a dimple when she laughed. Wouldn't he once have relished kissing stray drips of ice cream from those striking features?

But now Irakli's mind flung itself determinedly on a single thought: he wondered what it would be like to watch Merab eat ice cream. How that supernova of a smile would look and taste beneath sugar and cream.

With a troubled scowl, he turned back to the water.

"If you'd missed me that much I like to think you'd have called." She swept her fingers over her chin and held a wisp of her blonde hair back from the ice cream.

He said nothing. He'd missed her well enough at first, enough to avoid the trips to the brothels, enough to gravitate towards Nino, whose complexion had made him think of Zinaida's. He hadn't thought of her that often though - Tbilisi came with enough distractions. She'd not been in his head, the thought of her a constant weight dragging on his limbs, a phantom absence in his arms.

"Always running out of credit." Zinaida elbowed him, conceding some levity to Irakli's sullen, uncomfortable expression.

For her sake, Irakli scraped together the fragments of a smile. "Yeah, something like that."

"I guess it was pretty romantic, you just getting on a bus back here to propose. I mean. To see your Dad, but..." Zinaida blushed and drew his jacket about her body with her free hand. "I didn't think you had it in you."

Irakli bit his lip. It felt like a shock each time he was reminded of what he'd done in a state of restless panic the last time he had visited. Seeing the deterioration of his Dad, seeing his Mum's grief and stress...unable to face the memories of Merab and the summerhouse and what they meant for him. He thought if he could just go back to being who he'd been before Tbilisi, only more so, that it would make the other stuff seem less real.

But it was the other stuff that had followed him back this time, and nothing about his old life felt substantial by comparison.

At least there was time for that to change. This wasn't the hastily thrown together hush-up of David and Sopo's wedding. Irakli needed to speak to Zinaida's father, he needed to figure out how he was going to make his living. There was the cost to consider, the practicalities: with weddings you had to plan backwards.

But he caught himself looking a little further ahead than the logistics of who would get which room when Zinaida moved in with him and his Mum, and if his Dad ever came home from hospital.

He thought about the end of a life spent together. He thought about his Mum standing by his Dad's hospital bed. If that were Zinaida and Irakli, after some steady, amicable period of marriage, would he have finally forgotten those two nights at the vineyard outside Tbilisi? Or would he have spent every year in between longing for Merab, and wondering about missed opportunities - wondering if he'd ever really been himself since then?

Was giving up one worth the other?


	7. Chapter 7

"There's a wedding at the Tower this weekend, I asked if they wanted dancers and they said yes," Irakli's mother called from the kitchen as she heard her son approach. "I wrote the details by the phone."

"Thanks." Irakli poured tea for himself and topped up her mug too. He doubled back to pick up the note, glanced at it and crumpled it into a pocket of his jogging bottoms. The light in the kitchen was bright and piercing, and he rubbed his eyes blearily, leaning against the wall by the window, watching his mother shelling walnuts over the sink.

"Is your chokha clean, or do you need me to take it to Nana's for laundering?"

The tea caught at the back of his throat and stung in his nose as he coughed. His mother turned with a look of concern, but Irakli waved his hand and eased down the following coughs with more tea. Eventually, his cheeks a little red, he met her eyes with an apology. "I don't have it. I left it on a bus in Tbilisi."

She turned grey, and guilt made Irakli hide behind his mug again. What kind of crazy thing had he been thinking, giving away an ancestral item on a whim? Just because the guy he'd given it to had looked like he was born to wear it - just because Irakli's sleep-starved mind had taken in the sight of Merab in his chokha and decided that it was a more beautiful sight than he had ever seen. Merab's figure suited the fitted jacket so much better than Irakli's; his movements made the heavy folds of fabric seem an extension of him, not some choppy stage garment made so men could play at war.

"Did you ask at the bus station? Did you find the driver and check with him?"

"Yeah," he lied weakly. "Someone must have taken it before it got to the depot, I guess."

"Oh the people in that city, you'd forget they're human!" she exclaimed and wiped at the dew of tears below her eyes. "Do you know how long that's been in my family?"

She told him the story again as Irakli stared remorsefully down into the dregs of his tea. It hurt even more when he thought that - had he asked - Merab would probably have returned the chokha at any time.

When she had composed herself - and satisfied her anger at the fictional thief of Tbilisi by cracking more walnut shells - she glanced over her shoulder and added, "well, then give me that t-shirt to wash. You seem to have been living in it since you got back."

Irakli wrapped an arm around his waist defensively, but nodded for her as he finished his tea. The t-shirt didn't even smell of Merab anymore - it probably never had, they'd only really got close once Irakli was out of it. He ought to let her take it and wash the staleness out of it. Maybe it would help him to stop thinking about Merab when he couldn't sleep, to stop dreaming of him when he could.

"I can't believe an heirloom like that is gone for good but that horrible piece of jewellery came back," Irakli's mother tutted. But there was a loving smile pulling at her mouth and she caught her son as he left the kitchen, reaching up to enfold him in the hug that he seemed at that time, to her concerned eyes, to constantly be in need of.

He laughed and chided her, but didn't struggle until she put her hands on the sides of his face and kissed his cheeks, saying, "Why would you spoil such a perfect boy by putting a hole in his perfect ear - ?"

"Mum, I'm not, don't." He drew back from her kisses, though he didn't pull free of her hands.

"I know, I know." She waited until he looked up and met her eyes. "I don't know what trouble you got yourself into back there in Tbilisi. I won't ask. I'm just glad that you're home and safe."

He wondered, momentarily, what picture she had formed of his time in Tbilisi - what trouble she could possibly have conjured up for him - but decided it was better to let her suppose he had been run out after a fight or a scheme gone wrong. He hugged her back and promised to leave his t-shirt and jogging bottoms out to be washed.


	8. Chapter 8

The music continued as the dancers moved away, leaving the hotel to the wedding guests.

Approaching the group of girls in the lobby, Irakli pushed the sweat from his brow back into his hair, which stuck up in awkward angles and made Zinaida laugh. She handed Irakli a bottle of water and teased Shota when he asked why only Irakli got brought refreshments.

They walked out into the pastel-coloured sunset lighting cigarettes, stowing away the fresh cash - pay and tips - shrugging on jackets, reaching into the plastic bags full of canned beers they'd stocked up on earlier.

"You were brilliant," Zinaida said matter-of-factly. "I've missed seeing you dance."

He didn't quite stop himself from flinching away from the kiss she laid on his cheek. "Nah, I was heavy," he said.

Zinaida thought he was being self-deprecating; Irakli was annoyed that she couldn't tell the difference between when he danced well and when he didn't. She drifted back to her friend Tekle and the two girls walked arm in arm towards the sea front.

Zinaida and her friends always came to watch the guys dance - she and Irakli had met when she was a guest at a wedding he had performed at a couple of years before. She thought the dance was an endearing flip-side to the way he presented himself: a bad boy with leather jacket and scarred brow hiding a sensitive interior, respectful of a tradition and history that she found quaint.

It had suited Irakli just fine to let her think like this: all his interiority was merely implied by the fact that he danced, and he was excused from overtly cutesy activities with Zinaida on account of his image, just as he was excused from overtly macho activities with his friends on account of Zinaida. It had felt like they shared a private joke - though he realised that they had never actually confirmed that they were imagining the same punchline.

He watched her hair move, lifted by the breeze as she and Tekle led them towards the shore. The feeling that used to make him want to reach out and touch her - to put his hand on her hip and steal her to his side instead of Tekle's - had simply vanished. It left only nothingness when he looked at her, a slight sadness maybe, but no impulse to be near her. He didn't understand how all the habits and customs of the longest relationship he had had could have been undone in a matter of weeks.

Down from the hotel, the gang of them gathered on the grey shingle like pack animals, watching tourists watch the Ali and Nino sculpture on the waterfront like they always used to do.

The sea was orange as flames beneath the rays of the sinking sun. Silhouetted against it, the sculpture of tragic lovers - destined never to be together - moved in their own rigid dance, slowly circling one another before they attempted, as they did every night, to touch.

"What was that kintouri, man? You know wedding dances are meant to be happy, right?" Shota shoved Irakli's shoulder with the heel of his hand and laughed.

Irakli humoured him with a chuckle as he tipped his head back to swallow a mouthful of warm beer.

"Maybe he was thinking about his own wedding." Viktor smirked.

They all laughed like it was something to be afraid of, and Irakli could not summon the will to contradict them, though he met Zinaida's eyes as she rounded on Viktor to scold him.

The emptiness he felt around Zinaida swelled as he listened to his friends bicker and cackle. He wasn't interested in anything they said. What did any of that matter, Irakli thought with an uncomfortable pang of feeling, when, for a time, he had held the most extraordinary person he had ever met in his arms? When he would never again be able to do so, or even be able to tell anyone about it?

Staring at the huddled tourists and passersby, Irakli felt on the verge of betraying himself. At the sight of a swirl of auburn hair, lit unexpectedly to copper, he felt his skin react like the wind-licked sea. Any person who moved with long-legged, curve-backed grace made him look twice, hungry for a sight of the easy poise of Merab's body. Irakli learned to keep his eyes down, because when he looked up, he saw Merab everywhere.

He wondered if it was guilt, he wondered if it would fade - he couldn't remember thinking so continuously of anybody, anything, like this before. It had just been sex, what more was there to it? He had looked down on Tbilisi the night after David's wedding and imagined that that was the end of it - as simple as putting on a piece of jewellery, taking a bus, and leaving a city behind.

But now, among his friends as they wasted time - and he saw it as wasted time in a way he had never done before - Irakli felt completely severed from his hometown, from his old life, unable to give a direct answer to anything they asked about the capital, or about the wedding he was meant to be preparing for, unable to say why he was so unusually withdrawn.


	9. Chapter 9

At least reading to his father was still a reliable way to find peace. Irakli sat by the window in the hospital room, rehashing the classics from his schooldays for Vano and the other sick men in the ward. The stories were simple: adventure, romance, friendship. They reminded him of his childhood, and their happy endings soothed him as well as his small audience.

That day, Irakli assumed his father had fallen asleep halfway through the last chapter. The afternoon sun fell on Vano's face, bleaching out signs of discomfort, and the sound of Irakli's voice hid the rasp of his breath.

As Irakli closed the book and returned it to the shelf by the bedside, his father's fingers twitched, and one clear grey eye opened and beckoned him to bring his chair closer.

Irakli helped his father unfasten the respirator so that he could move it from his face when he spoke. He raised a glass of water to his father's lips carefully and helped him to drink.

"Your mother is worried."

Irakli put the glass back and leaned on his father's bedside with an insouciant expression. "What's new?"

Vano chuckled, but it blended with a cough of frustration. "Don't be smart with me. She thinks you're a troublemaker, but I know better."

He listened to his father struggle through the sentences with caution, a studied look of blankness on his face, belied only by the restlessness of his eyes as he tried to meet his father's stare.

"You waited on that wreck until all the other boys had dived in. You wouldn't be the one to jump first and get in trouble for it."

The wreck of the tanker Özlem had been a popular place to swim on the coast. As a kid, Irakli enjoyed mucking about on the hot, rusty hull as much as the other local boys, but his father had never let him forget the way he had held back on that first exploration. He shrugged now at Vano's words, but did not argue.

His father drew in deep breaths behind the respirator, never letting his scrutiny drop from Irakli's face. "So, I don't think you caused any trouble, son. I think you scared yourself."

Irakli felt heat wrap its fingers around his neck and glide its touch over his cheeks. He did not flinch from his father's eyes, but he allowed the smallest of gestures to acknowledge the accuracy of the supposition.

Vano grunted satisfaction at being told he was right. Irakli knew it was only his sickness that stopped Vano from sharing more of his thoughts on his son's cowardice, so he imagined the words for himself: _men don't hold back, they don't let others see them afraid even when they have good reason to be. Men who meet a challenge with courage will prevail where those who hang back and wait are doomed to lose out_.

So it seemed a dangerous thing to ask then - but what Irakli lacked in courage he made up for in recklessness: "Was there ever anyone else, Dad? Other than Mum?"

His father's eyes widened above the respirator, and Irakli prepared himself for what passed, in those days, for a torrent of righteous indignation.

Instead, Vano revealed a smile when he drew the plastic away to answer. His eyes sparkled. "Did I...did I never tell you about Lida?"

Irakli shook his head and grinned. He did not know what he wanted to hear from this story, but there was a bittersweet warmth to be shared in seeing the sudden bloom of pleasure in his father's face.

Vano sighed. Slowly, in between gasps at the respirator, he told Irakli about Lida the student nurse from Ossetia, who used to ride her bicycle past the construction site he was working on. He told Irakli about summer picnics that outlasted the food and the wine, about lovers' seats at the cinema and Lida's foreign red lipstick, bought on the black market, a luxuriously expensive thing to kiss away.

Vano sighed happily against his plump pile of cushions as the story petered out on some stiflingly hot summer's day three decades ago.

For a moment they enjoyed the sense of normalcy the anecdote bound them to - they were free from the hospital and might have been anywhere, father and son sharing the kind of talk that was expected.

Irakli waited while Vano took deep breaths behind the respirator, and watched until the movement of his chest grew regular once more. "So, what happened?"

Vano shook his head against the pillow and gave Irakli a look of puzzlement. He spoke quietly enough that Irakli had to lean close to hear. "What...happened? Elizabeth!" Vano coughed until Irakli brought water to him again. "Elizabeth happened. Lida was a fun girl, but your mother... If I had passed up that chance, I would have woken up disappointed every day of my life."

Irakli's hands clenched on the edge of the bed. He tried to smile but knew he was failing, so looked down with a nod of his head.

"What about your family? Mum's not a nurse, didn't they think Lida was a better match?"

"That's not how things worked, son. It didn't matter what a woman did, because she would stop doing it anyway once she married. Kept things simpler."

Although Vano's voice was thin as a draught, one of the other men in the ward croaked up in response: "hear, hear."

Irakli moved to fasten his father's respirator on again but Vano pushed his hand away and pointed his crooked finger at Irakli's face. "Tell me, then, is your Tbilisi girl a Lida or an Elizabeth?"

"What Tbilisi girl? Don't be ridiculous, Dad, I'm marrying Zinaida," Irakli said as smoothly as he could manage.

Vano pushed himself up against the cushions with some effort and wagged his finger at Irakli. His skin looked like old parchment, his breath rattled, but his eyes were fierce. "I know you. I know you," he said hoarsely. Irakli saw the threat of betrayal in his father's expression and again filled in what he imagined Vano would have liked to add: would Irakli really spoil this rare moment of bonding by denying Vano his side of the bargain? Honorable men dealt reciprocally. Good sons sought and respected the advice of their elders when they found themselves unsure of how to proceed.

"Tell me about the one in Tbilisi," Vano ordered before clamping the mask to his face. When Irakli hesitated again, Vano gestured with a crooked hand.

Irakli glanced around the room and laughed uneasily at the other men who suddenly pretended not to be listening. He laced his fingers together and squeezed them between his knees, and thought about how easy it was to describe a person without specifying their gender - and how ridiculous it was that people should find so many other ways to make that specification matter.

He let himself think of Merab directly for the first time in broad daylight, and a smile crept over his features. "Ah, the one in Tbilisi has red hair," he began.

Vano's brows raised encouragingly.

"It's really soft, especially behind their neck, and it's wavy - it should get in their face, but it doesn't." Irakli waved a finger over his forehead, sketching the line of Merab's fringe and glancing up at Vano with a shy grin.

"Their smile...they smile too much. It really...does something. That smile makes me stupid. It makes me do things I never -" Irakli caught himself and chuckled in embarrassment. He looked up at Vano's face, which was enraptured above the respirator: fascinated and hungry like when Irakli got to the climax of the stories in the books he read out.

Thinking of Merab felt dangerous, made him dizzy. He was worried that somehow as he spoke he would give too much away, so he shook his head dismissively. "Akh, I don't know. It doesn't matter, does it? I won't see them again."

Vano's free hand struggled across the covers in search of Irakli's grip. He squeezed his son's knuckles in a way that sought to recall the strength he'd had as a healthy man, but now barely pinched Irakli's joints. "She sounds like a rare one. I knew..." Vano insisted on speaking. "I knew I wouldn't live to see you marry."

"Don't say that, Dad," Irakli frowned. "I'm marrying Zinaida. You'll be there."

Vano closed his eyes, but held the respirator up one last time before letting Irakli fasten it on again: "I'm sorry, looking after your mother should be my responsibility, it shouldn't have fallen to you."


	10. Chapter 10

Vano had never thought much of Zinaida. She was independent, opinionated, wanted to study things like business, which he deemed wholly inappropriate for a girl to study - and, what was more, her family stirred up all of Vano's mixed feelings about Russia and the regime that had both employed him and poisoned him.

Looking at his relationship with Zinaida honestly, Irakli realised that this latent disapproval had been part of its appeal. Before Tbilisi he had tried hard not to let his life be dictated by his father's sickness. He wouldn't get a boring job and settle down just so Vano could have the satisfaction of seeing him shoulder some more responsibility. But he wouldn't kick up a fuss and deny the possibility of doing so just to cause upset. He'd been happy to drift along, taking as little as possible seriously for as long as life allowed him to get away with it.

His father observed this provocation with indulgence: he wanted a son who thought for himself, who pushed boundaries, just so long as he knew not to push them too far. So, by having a girlfriend who Vano did not want to see him marry, Irakli had maintained a position of cautious rebellion that his father could choose to be both vexed at and proud of - and his mother too, albeit for the opposite reasons.

Elizabeth had consistently maintained that all the difficulties Vano saw in Zinaida would soon be smoothed out after marriage. Zinaida would settle down and Irakli would rise to the occasion and find a way of providing for them. Elizabeth was a woman of faith, and she believed most fervently that the institute of marriage could transform even the most lackadaisical of sons into a model of upstanding family values. She had been overjoyed when Irakli had finally proposed - more, probably, than Zinaida had been. Elizabeth had wanted it to happen years ago. She had prayed for it and her prayers had, at long last, been answered.

When Vano told her about his conversation with Irakli - his smile mischievous, as though he'd won a bet and Elizbeth now had to pay up - she reprimanded him for encouraging trouble. With all of her own worries, she was still not oblivious to her son's restless, silent distance. She remembered the way his phone had buzzed repeatedly in his pocket when he'd first come back and said he would propose to Zinaida; she remembered the guilty, soft expression lit up by the screen of his phone when he took it out to look at the messages, and the way his thumb had hesitated over his reply. There had been someone he had simply _had_ to call once he got credit. Someone he would not talk to while Elizabeth was close by.

But then again, he had come back when she'd told him about Vano's deterioration; he had suggested the engagement; he had come home, again, instead of staying for the audition. Elizabeth hesitated to stir up the feelings he was dealing with, especially when he was trying to do the right thing anyway. But Vano was a romantic and as he weakened in the shadow of his own mortality he sought vicarious thrills through Irakli's life.

What was more, old men were the worst gossips in society. Oh, they loved to blame their wives, but they ate up other people's drama, with all the self-righteous knowledge that it made their families look better by comparison, that it might mean a proud friend would have to ask for their advice or help, or that they might see a rival dragged through the mud. It set their minds to problem solving, it let them borrow what was to them adventure and excitement - because men were so rarely the victims of such gossip spreading. Men did not need to keep secrets, so men were quite happy to spread them.

Probably one of the old men in Vano's ward had said something about what he had overheard in order to win the attention of a pretty nurse. Perhaps she had mentioned it over coffee with her colleagues as a morsel of drama about the living and not the dying. Word spread through social channels about the mysterious source of Irakli's subdued new mood, and Irakli's mother worried. She had tried to remain silent for his sake, but now the story was not going to disappear - he would have to own up to this Tbilisi affair so that he could leave it behind and marry his fiancée.

"Does Zinaida know?" Elizabeth blurted out over lunch one day.

She tried to think when she had last seen her son unfurl his shoulders, when a smile had really lit his eyes up for longer than a moment. He did all the things he used to do: he danced and he handed out pamphlets and maps to late-season tourists, he helped her in the kitchen without needing to be asked, and he took such care of his father. He went out, and stayed out too late, he drank and smoked and took Zinaida on dates. But Elizabeth felt like she had received an automaton back from Tbilisi: like the man in the sculpture on the seafront, Irakli moved as though on rails, following the paths he had always taken, but never quite connecting with those about him.

He looked up warily at her question. "What?"

"About this girl in Tbilisi, does Zinaida know?"

He started to say "what girl in Tbilisi" and then snapped his jaw shut and took a sip of water.

Now, Elizabeth studied Irakli with open concern. "I spoke to your father. And Tamar at the grocery store asked me about it. It can't be long until Zinaida's family finds out. You know her father expects better."

He sighed and looked down at his plate. "I don't know why everyone's so interested. It's nothing. I told Dad - it's not like I'll go back there or see them again."

Elizabeth's fingers worked nervously in the tassels at the edge of the tablecloth. It wasn't her place to say, she thought, she shouldn't contradict her own husband. But still she worried. "My love, if it was nothing then you wouldn't be like this."

Irakli avoided her eyes still, and Elizabeth's heart pounded with fearful questions: who was this person who had split her precious child in two? Why, if they made him feel so strongly, had he not ended his relationship with Zinaida and suggested that they meet the new girl? Elizabeth hadn't liked it, but she'd heard him joke about seeing other girls when he talked with his friends before, even when he was dating Zinaida. What made this one different?

Secrets made Elizabeth fearful. Secrets made her think of the things the papers and the priests warned about - all kinds of dangers that were rife in Tbilisi and could only grow worse as Batumi expanded and filled with outside influences.

And then there was an unfamiliar seam of annoyance in her son's voice when he finally answered: "Can we drop it? It's over, Mum." Irakli rolled his eyes and blasphemed, which made her gasp. "It wasn't ever really anything anyway."

She clasped her hands before her face and murmured a prayer into them. Was this what happened to a boy brought up without a strong role model? Whose father could not be there in the way that Elizabeth had always been? She would have to speak on her terms, as she could, as she had always tried to do, even if that was part of the problem.

"Then be honest with Zinaida. I know your father makes a big story of how he left that girl Lida to be with me, but from my perspective he was cruel to her. He was selfish and so was I."

She watched her son's hand flex into a fist on the table, and still he looked away from her. "It's different from that. You don't understand," he murmured.

Elizabeth tried to banish the dreadful possibilities that crowded around his silence. She swallowed drily and made her voice sound calm and soothing. "But I will try. These things aren't simple. You must think of the girl's honour: your father thinks romance is simple because he sees it only from his perspective. I can tell you the woman's side. We do not have the choices you do, so you must try to be kind and remember that. Think about Zinaida, think about what's best for her."

There was such vulnerability in his eyes when he looked up at her, she thought for a moment she was looking again at a small child in need of reassurance. "What do you mean?"

"I know you want to ignore it," Elizabeth let her own worried gaze traverse the table, seeking words that she felt guilty about even uttering. "But will you make Zinaida, as your wife, live her life with these rumours? I know you were trying to protect her by keeping quiet, my love, but there is a story now, it's a matter of public talk. You can still take charge of this thing - give her the words to speak when she is asked about it."

His jaw remained locked, fierce, and he said nothing. He looked to her like a cable under tension, silently shouldering all her advice, trying, still, to be what she asked him to be. Elizabeth felt tears spring to her eyes. He was such a good boy.

She regretted ever letting him go to Tbilisi.

She got up and went round the table to embrace him. Irakli let himself be held against her where he sat, though he did not fully relax.

Elizabeth stroked his hair and rocked him. "You just need to talk to Zinaida. Work it out. You'll forget Tbilisi, you'll forget the other. You have your whole life to forget."

He tensed again in her embrace and she heard him gasp, but he kept his face hidden against her arm.


	11. Chapter 11

His mother's words made him think - with irresistible, unfamiliar focus - about what would come next. He lay awake through the night, smoking in his tiny childhood bedroom with its bare walls and narrow, creaking bed. He stared at the shadows on the ceiling and the shifting orange streetlight on thin layers of paint and he tried to imagine life after his father's death.

He'd go hunting for jobs in the casinos or hotels, he supposed, and Zinaida would carry on her work in the mall and try to study from home and dream of the business she wanted to open one day. His mother would cook for them - Irakli had a suspicion that he knew more about what went on in a kitchen than Zinaida did, but he also knew that he would not be permitted to help with the cooking any longer when he had a wife to do so. And Elizabeth would only stop asking for a grandchild when she had one to care for - while he and Zinaida carried on working - and then she'd start asking for a second one. If Zinaida didn't agree there would be arguments.

Imagining the details, Irakli wondered what it was all for.

When his eyes fell closed as the dawn beat out the streetlights and the room was submerged in silvery half-light, he thought of himself standing at the front desk of a fancy hotel on the seafront. His suit was immaculate, he was confident of his position and he smiled in welcome at the group that walked in. The hotel was hosting the National Ensemble on their annual tour, and one of the dancers came forward to arrange the allocation of rooms and keys. Irakli put a key card on the marble counter and the dancer laid his hand over Irakli's. Irakli looked up and met luminous hazel eyes, a smile that curved wide and easy, all below a soft tangle of auburn hair that Irakli wanted to sink his hands into.

He knew he should take the dancer's hand from his, step away and get on with his job, but the feeling that swept over him at seeing that beautiful smile again was one of relief. _I thought you'd never come. Take me away from here_ , he imagined saying as he leaned towards Merab, reached for the back of his neck, kissed him open-mouthed and soft like they hadn't had enough time for before.

For a moment, it was perfect: Irakli felt a peace he'd forgotten how to feel. And then Merab stepped back, took Irakli's hand and turned it, palm upwards, and placed a ring of metal there. Irakli wasn't sure if it was an earring or a wedding band, but when, confused, he tried to meet Merab's eyes, Merab only looked away awkwardly.

"I don't need it anymore," he murmured.

"Keep it," Irakli insisted quietly. He heard the need in his voice. He wrapped Merab's hand in his, folded the ring against his palm, tried to make him accept it.

He lifted his arm to block the morning sunlight from his eyes, and was surprised not to find the circle of metal pressing into his hand.

His mother turned away from him as she swept the curtains wide open and gestured to the mug of tea she had placed on his small desk, next to the overflowing ashtray and empty cigarette packet.

"Tamar's husband is giving us a lift to the cathedral to light candles - you can come with us and walk to Zinaida's from there." He wondered whether there had been bad news from the hospital - her eyes were downcast like the corners of her mouth, and her tone was abrupt, a barrier against some emotion she might not be able to control.

He squinted and sat up, pulling the thin blankets about his body. "Is everything ok? Is Dad ok?"

Elizabeth let him see her worry, but she shook her head. "He's fine - at least, I haven't had any news." She looked like she wasn't going to say any more, and then tilted her head with the indulgent sadness she wore so often around him. "I just thought it might make us both feel better. Let God share the burden of our worries."

Irakli grunted by way of not disagreeing with her, and avoided her face as he raised the mug of tea. She left with the stubborn hopefulness she always had regarding him and church, regarding him and marriage, regarding him and the future.

It was early - he knew he'd barely slept. He still felt warm from the dream, still felt like the touch of Merab's skin was within reach, like the taste of Merab's breath lay only just beyond his lips.

Alone again, Irakli put his face in his hands and tried to rub away the memories and the sleeplessness. It helped wake him a little, but left him with one impression from the dream that dominated: the way calmness had swept over him as soon as he had thought he was free of the life he'd plotted out for himself in Batumi. As though the imagined future with Zinaida and the immaculate suit and the concierge job had been a nightmare wrapped up inside the sweeter dream of Merab.

Elizabeth had told him to think of Zinaida, to think about what was best for her. She had undoubtedly not intended for Irakli to reach the conclusion that he found himself at that morning though, wired and sleep-starved and desperate to salvage something from the wreckage of good intentions.


	12. Chapter 12

Whatever was in store for Vano, for his mother, for him, Irakli had come to the realisation that he was in no state to drag another person deeper into his life. It wasn't fair on Zinaida to use her family as a prop for his own ailing one. How could he go on pretending to draw closer to her as the memory of Merab formed a yawning, unbridgeable distance between them?

He slipped out of the church while Elizabeth and Tamar held a cleric occupied in earnest conversation and walked the familiar route to Zinaida's block.

Her older sister answered the apartment door, and gave him a look of immovable disgust, despite Irakli's practiced, easy smile. She turned and called Zinaida, but it was their father who arrived at the door next.

Irakli felt his back straighten and his smile turn wary, but he greeted Nikoloz and stood his ground.

"Are you finally here to talk to me, boy?"

"I came to see Zinaida. Sir," Irakli fought the urge to fidget or grin foolishly under the scrutiny of the other man.

Zinaida's father studied him. His mouth was hidden by a full, greying beard, and his eyes held the same expectation of disappointment that Irakli saw in all men of his age. "How's your father, boy?"

It was easier to be serious about that, at least. Irakli met his eyes and thanked him for asking. "He's very weak, sir. The doctors don't think he'll leave hospital."

Nikoloz grunted a sympathetic noise. His expression conveyed a warning that time was not on Irakli's side, but he stepped aside with a frown as Zinaida breezed past him.

"Take your coat, daughter," he admonished, catching her elbow.

She rolled her eyes but let him help her shrug on a black woollen jacket, then she kissed his cheek and stepped over the threshold to take Irakli's hand. She didn't look at him or ask why he was there, but called a cheery farewell to her father as she led Irakli down the stairs and out of the building.

"So, where are we going?" she asked, turning her face away towards the street.

Irakli suggested one of busy bars down on the seafront, and that got her attention. He saw then that her eyes were red-rimmed and the shadows under them were as dark as the purple-tinged lipstick she wore.

"You must be sorry," she said tartly. Before he could speak, she stepped back to fumble at her coat pockets. "Akh, do you have a cigarette?"

"I ran out," he replied mechanically.

So, she'd heard whatever dumb gossip was going about already, and they were standing in the middle of the street in broad daylight and none of this was how he'd expected to have this conversation.

"Hey, Zinaida," he made himself take her hand and he pulled her close again. She curled against him, her hair smooth against his cheek, and Irakli sighed. "I _am_ sorry. Where do you wanna go?"

She was quiet for long enough that he almost asked again, but then she disentangled herself from him and suggested a café inland, by the lake.  
After a short, silent bus ride, they entered a place that was, to Irakli, yet more awkwardly quiet than the journey had been. Some ironic, restrained bossa nova covers of rock songs played in the empty nooks and crannies of the labyrinthine series of small rooms, and the shelves were stacked with spreading pot plants that seemed to get in his face wherever he stood. The produce was good though, Zinaida's taste couldn't be faulted on that count. They sold tarhun and matsoni made by small, local outfits and no one in there was over thirty by Irakli's reckoning.

He ordered a glass of violently green tarhun for Zinaida and, grimacing at the price, scraped together enough change to add a pot of their lowest grade tea for himself.

She sat at a small table, her chin on her hands, her coat still on, her expression hidden by the way her long fingers curled against her cheeks. It was only when Irakli settled on the pew opposite her that he could see the haughty anger that left her pale between her pink eyes and pink nose.

He tried to make himself small enough to fit between the overhanging greenery behind and around him, but the surroundings were oppressive no matter which way he angled himself. His tea wasn't brewed yet and Zinaida didn't touch her drink or say anything, so he folded his arms and fidgeted and finally asked her with a sigh: "What have you heard?"

Her immaculately shaped brows sprang up and she scoffed. "Excuse me? No." She raised a finger like she was scolding a pet or a child, and glared at him. "No - what did you do? You want to ask what I heard so you only have to tell me I got it wrong? Tell me what you did."

Irakli's jaw tightened. He felt - quite literally, as well - backed into a corner. His father had made him speak, his mother had made him come here, now Zinaida wanted to compel him to perform some ritual of contrition? Crisply, matching her tone and talking quietly, he gave his rejoinder. "What, every detail, so you can tell me what was ok and what wasn't?"

She let out a brittle, incredulous laugh. "There are details?"

Irakli glanced uneasily at the café staff, who seemed content to ignore them, despite Zinaida's raised voice. This wasn't the conversation he'd come here to have. It wasn't what he'd rehearsed. He longed for the space to speak frankly, but he still wasn't sure he'd know what to say - everything had felt so enclosed, stifling and claustrophobic since he came back.

With a rush that felt like a blade in his chest he remembered how easy he'd thought breaking up with Merab had been. How he'd barely even thought of it as a break-up. How Merab had let him make his announcement and go, hiding the hurt that Irakli had been sure he would feel behind the bravura of a "congratulations"; Irakli still wasn't sure if that word had been intended to be sardonic or genuine.

"Fine," Irakli snapped, looking down at his clenched fist on the scrubbed wooden table top. "There was someone...someone I liked, I guess, in Tbilisi."

Zinaida folded her knuckles against her mouth and laughed wetly. "Oh, so you've stopped liking them now?"

He leaned back, he tried to look away, he checked his tea, but there was nowhere to go. He shrugged. "There is someone I like in Tbilisi. I don't talk with them anymore. I don't text them or call them. I'm not going to see them again."

"Can I see your phone?"

She was already holding out a hand before she realised she'd overstepped. Irakli gave her a look of gentle reproach, softened by a twist in his lips that caused Zinaida to let out another sobbing laugh. She finally lifted her drink, her gesture poised, delicate and composed as she sipped from the paper straw. She sniffed back tears and swiped the lower lids of each eye with determined speed.

"How can I trust you, though? When I had to find out like this? My sister heard it from her friend who works at the hospital. You were boasting with your dad!"

He tried to smile. "I know, I know, every word I share with my dying father is public property. I wasn't boasting, Zinaida. He made an assumption. I didn't correct him." Irakli sighed and watched Zinaida's hand move across the table with some trepidation. She stretched her fine fingers over the back of his fist, and the memory of another touch on the back of that hand made his breathing deepen. He didn't avoid Zinaida's hand, but he didn't look up either.

"No? You weren't boasting about your stunning red-head?" She said testily, though her hand was soft on his. "Iko, I know you flirt with other girls. I figured you'd go on dates in Tbilisi."

Her speech had taken on that cajoling, motherly tone again: the voice of reason. "I do it too," she shrugged like it was nothing, and Irakli looked up with a sudden frown.

Zinaida finished with the same earnest breathlessness she had when she talked about his dancing, when she explained his own feelings to him: "But that's why it works - we're the same."

He shook his head. Her words had awoken a habitual possessiveness that he didn't know why he even felt still. "You go on dates with other guys?"

Zinaida rolled her eyes. "Don't try that crap with me, Irakli. Like I said: we're the same. Or I thought we were. But - I thought we were honest about it. I thought if there was something, I don't know, serious, you'd tell me. I'd tell you. I didn't think you'd come back here and _propose,_ like you're using me as a...a consolation prize or something."

Irakli no longer knew what he felt defensive about. The starting point of his emotions seemed to have been obscured and he pulled his hand free from Zinaida's and rubbed his face in his palm, trying to work out what, exactly, was causing the tumult of bitterness inside him. He ran through a number of responses and found them all lacking.

Swerving back to the plans he'd had for their conversation, he met Zinaida's eyes sheepishly. "So, what? Are you saying you don't want to get married anymore?"

Her mouth opened in astonishment. "What?"

The café staff couldn't help looking up at that - they ducked their heads away quickly and Irakli rolled his eyes with a rueful laugh.

"I've let you down," he said carefully. "So if you don't want to get married now..."

Zinaida pinned him with a look that he wouldn't meet. Irakli invested his energy in checking and pouring his tea, wishing she'd just get on with it - wishing she'd set him free of the mess he'd made of things.

"Why would I want that? I just want you to talk to me."

Try as he might, Irakli could not detect any whinging notes of self-pity in her words. It should have been a simple enough request to fulfil - if the person in Tbilisi had not been who they were. Instead he shook his head mutely and stared at the surface of his drink.

"Where am I going to find another guy to marry who doesn't want to change me?" Zinaida asked, frustration starting to leak through. "We're both screw-ups as far as our families think - but I thought we had each others' backs. God, the guys in this town - they think they're modern, but when it comes to marriage...I don't think so."

"My mother would try and change you," Irakli said, no longer certain what or who he was defending. It hadn't occurred to him that Zinaida would have her own reasons to want the marriage - beyond whatever sentiment it was she felt for him.

Zinaida just snorted and waved a hand. "I can handle Elizabeth. I know her, like I know you. Isn't it better to stick with what you know?"

He felt the clarity he had woken with begin to blur, like sleeplessness had finally caught up with him, like the fantastic ideas presented by his dreams were shown to be inadequate and impossible under the harsh light of consciousness. Floundering, he tried once more: "What about your business course? Will your dad pay the fees if you're married?"

"That's not your excuse to use!" Zinaida exclaimed. "Irakli, do you not want to get married now? Are you trying to get me to break up with you because _you_ want to break up with _me_?"

He knew that guilt had overtaken his whole expression. He looked up at last, eyes wide, jaw tight, and shrugged minutely. "I don't know who I'm doing this for," he said quietly.

To his surprise, Zinaida muffled a laugh. She still looked exasperated, but something had struck her as truly funny, and she shook her head. In answer to what he knew must have been a pathetic, questioning look, she stifled another giggle. "You're more of a _dedakaci_ than Elizabeth is, you know that?"

Mother-man: it was a term for long-suffering housewives who worked themselves ragged for no reward, with no urging from their family members - family members who were assumed to be ungrateful and oblivious so that _the dedakaci_ 's domestic martyrdom could prove to be fully effective. Irakli pulled a face. "What?"

Zinaida shrugged. "You heard me. You're doing this for everyone except yourself, obviously. Isn't that what you want to hear? But if we don't marry, then what - what will you do if you're not tied down to me and your mother?" Her lips twisted wryly as she raised her glass and prodded at the ice-cubes in the bottom of it with the straw.

"Zinaida, that's not fair." Hearing it in those trivial terms made him uncomfortable.

"Why not marry your Tbilisi sweetheart instead?" Zinaida studied him. "Oh, Iko, is she married already?"

It would have been the perfect cover, but it took him a moment too long to see it. He blinked and made a sound of agreement. "Yeah. Yeah, it would have been impossible."

Zinaida's expression was instantly sceptical. "You're still lying. You're terrible at this!" Before he could say anything else - to defend or explain in whatever way he might have been able to - she swiped the air with a gesture again and rolled her eyes. "No, you know - don't tell me about it. Talk to Shota about her if you need to, talk to Vano some more. I don't want to know - if it's over, it's over. But that still doesn't answer what you're going to do next, Iko."

That had also not been part of how he'd imagined this conversation. Plans: how had he ever been able to plan for anything when his father's health had wavered and ebbed from month to month, when with one voice he was encouraged to pursue the dancing that earned him a decent wage and with another his ambition was reeled back in, pruned to fit the circumstances of his parents' lives? He'd never minded not having plans - he'd never minded letting those around him choose his direction - he realised, now, that he'd never wanted anything for himself quite like he wanted to go back to Tbilisi, back to Merab.

In answer to Zinaida's expectant silence he could only shrug again. "I don't know. The usual. At least I can help out here. I can look after Mum."

She sighed. The traces of her tears had gone - she looked at him with a kind of puzzlement in her blue eyes and grabbed his hand again impulsively. "Irakli, I'm not saying this for your sake, but for mine, so maybe you'll listen. Let's not do anything rash. Let's not do anything _else_ rash," she added pointedly. "You don't know how much longer Vano has. You've only been back from Tbilisi a few weeks. As things are, we're keeping both of our sets of parents off our backs. Maybe you should have that talk with my dad. Maybe he can help you figure out what you're doing."

He couldn't argue against it. Despite his intentions, nothing had changed. And it wouldn't - not without the kind of uncomfortable, decisive rending of others' hopes and expectations that he had always strove to avoid. Irakli let out a long breath and slipped his hand out from Zinaida's hold. "Yeah, you're right," he said.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Summary for chapters 12-20: Irakli (dubbed Inertia Personified by erinaceina-blog, and she's not wrong) is dragged further along the route to what's expected for him. What will it take to make him take a stand for what he wants? Meanwhile his father deteriorates, and the space left for him in his own life is further reduced. News from the National Ensemble makes him think of Tbilisi and Merab more than ever.

Zinaida thought she knew what - who - she was getting involved with. Elizabeth thought he had set the record straight about Tbilisi. Vano told him stories of taking Elizabeth out on dates in the capital and tried to find out whether Irakli had gone there with his _red-haired girl_.

Around them all, Irakli felt an absence inside himself. There was a part of him that could not exist. It watched jealously as he hung out with his friends - who he started to think were not really his friends, because he could not tell them about that other part of him. It mocked him when the well-meaning people in his life dispensed advice that was both too simple and too complex for the dilemma he found himself in. It was a third wheel on every date he took Zinaida on, always asking: how would this be with Merab? What would that fantasy world be like, where Irakli could hold the hand of his beautiful, smiling boyfriend as he walked along the boulevard at sunset, and the colours in Merab's hair put the fiery sky to shame, and he could kiss him and laugh with him and no one around them would care about it, because they were happy and that was enough?

He did not know if it was the thought of Merab himself, or the thought of carrying this secret - unexamined, unexplored forever - that made him so resentful of his life in Batumi. Two nights of fooling around in a garden seemed like so little on which to hang a lifetime of unhappiness, but the further that time stretched away from those memories, the more desperate Irakli became to reclaim them and hold onto them. He had been honest with himself then, and with Merab, in a way that seemed to be impossible now.

Of course his friends heard the rumours of love in the capital too - they wanted to know why he had told his father but not them, they wanted to know what he had done, what his sweetheart was like, how did she kiss, where they had gone together. The endless questions made Irakli feel nauseous and panicked, as though at any point he might forget himself and slip in a detail that could only have been true, and could only have referred to a guy. His monosyllabic answers only provoked his friends though - they asked if it had been better than the other girls he knew, if it had been worse than the other girls, until he had to shout them down, like he had shouted Luka down in the changing room in Tbilisi, way back before he'd had any idea what was waiting for him in that city.

His friends respected that, like Luka had.

Irakli realised, with a certain fearfulness directed towards himself, that he almost wished it hadn't been enough. Their questioning left him spoiling for a fight, wanting to generate some hurt in his fists or body that would feel different from the ever-present ache the secrets and the solitude left. It made him feel grubby and less in control of himself than ever.

It was fully autumn at last, and rain fell day and night in warm, relentless curtains. After that heated, confrontational evening with them, Irakli spent less time with his friends; wedding season was over and work at the hotels and venues was patchy anyway. He hadn't dared get drunk around them since he'd returned, and both he and his friends had found his sobriety unsatisfactory and detrimental to the evening's fun - he was not good company and he knew it.

In the meantime, Irakli followed the football on the radio and ran errands for his mother. Vano was conscious for less and less time with each of his visits. Irakli felt like he was watching his father fade slowly away each time he sat with him, but he wasn't sure if Vano was retreating or if he was.

Nights grew long as he lay in his room smoking, thinking of things never touched by Batumi and the tangle of his family life. He could look at the streetlights on the white walls and think of the same light on Merab's skin. He could close his eyes, the rough taste of smoke on his tongue, one hand hot down the front of his own clothes as he remembered the stupid fight Merab had initiated over his cigarette. The longer he went without speaking to anyone of it the deeper Irakli let his memories take him when he was alone, so the nights stretched and his sleep spilled further into the mornings and his mother worried more and more.


	14. Chapter 14

Irakli was on the way to meet Zinaida during her lunch break at the mall - he paused to buy cigarettes and smoke under a shop awning, thinking of how he'd avoid her questions about talking with her father this time. The rain that day was a fine, misty haze that umbrellas did little to combat: people went about their tasks in brightly coloured waterproofs, joking about the good weather as the low morning sun poked its fingers between the beads of drizzle.

He'd been to practice at the studio, but even that was disheartening these days. His old partnerships had been passed on to other dancers when he went to Tbilisi, and the teachers who ran the studio said it would not be fair to simply allow him back as though nothing had changed. So he trained - knowing that soon he would no longer be able to put in the hours - and he danced in the chorus and tried to be happy for the others who were getting their chance.

The satisfaction of knowing he was good at it, the buzz of proving how carefully he could adhere to a discipline when it was worthwhile, the sheer rush of using his body and working every muscle - they'd all lost their lustre for him since he'd had to come back. His time at the studio wasn’t going to lead anywhere, yet he kept making himself go. He wasn't ready to admit to himself that that path was closed to him. And besides, his time at the studio was, like so much else, permeated now by thoughts of Merab. It was a reminder of a version of himself that he had to break free of and forget - and increasingly did not want to.

Irakli sighed and stubbed his cigarette out before heading into the rain. There was no point trying to avoid it: the mist clung to his hair and gathered just below the edge of his collar. It drew damp cuffs around his wrists and ankles and made certain he was uncomfortable and irritable by the time he joined Zinaida at the food court.

She laughed at his bedraggled appearance and ran a hand through his wet hair, and Irakli endured it. As they queued, she talked about her colleagues in the clothes shop and the new stock they were getting. Zinaida had thoughts on the best stockists, but her manager did not always share her opinions. Zinaida had been reading something that absolutely supported her side of the argument, and Irakli tried to appear interested at the appropriate moments in her story.

They ate at one of the small round tables in the food court - Zinaida bought fries she would barely touch and encouraged Irakli to help himself. That had been their routine for so long he didn't even notice it as anything other than an ordinary part of lunchtime, but Zinaida laughed and shook her head.

"When you marry me are you going to be the one buying us both lunch?"

He paused and removed his hand from the carton. "Probably not, I've heard marriage is expensive. And obviously you'll be in the kitchen the whole time, why would we need to eat out?"

Zinaida snorted and prodded his leg playfully with her toe. "All you need to do is talk to my dad... I'm sure he can get you something."

"And all you need to do is talk to my mum, she can teach you the basic recipes..." it was said as a grumble and he scowled at the table-top and hid the rueful sneer on his lips by sucking on his milkshake.

The sound of indignation Zinaida made was only partly an act.

They needled each other about other stupid things: she had more news about his friends than he did, he proved he had been listening to what she'd said about her work, but indicated that he simply didn't care.

Zinaida lost patience first. "Why are you _being like this_?"

He shook his head and glared at a group of teenagers making a cheerful racket on one of the other tables. "Sorry. I've been at the studio, I'm just tired I guess."

She softened too easily for him. "You always used to be in a good mood after dancing. I wish you'd tell me what happened at the National Ensemble."

Irakli bit his lip. A spark of tenderness flickered inside him when he met her eyes: worried and wide and blue like the mountains. It reassured him - and then it frightened him. Was it a sign that he was forgetting how Merab had made him feel, that all of those associations were transferring back to Zinaida? Weary and confused, Irakli rubbed his face.

"Ah, it's nothing. Sometimes I think I should have gone to the audition, that's all. Just to find out."

Zinaida made a sympathetic sound. "Did you have a good partner to dance with there?"

He studied her for a moment, trying to work out if it was meant to be a leading question, but she just looked hopeful - like she was trying to find a way of letting him talk, and had finally hit on a subject that he might tell her about.

He helped himself to another fry from her tray and conceded, "Yeah. It was a bit awkward, actually. The teacher split up a long-term partnership and got me to dance with both of them instead."

She laughed a little at this, and Irakli smiled. It was the most relaxed he'd felt around her since he'd got back, and he might have said more, but then his phone buzzed in his pocket.

The message was from his mum.

_Meet me at the hospital as soon as you can. Your father is very sick_.

He swore and pushed his chair back.

"I've got to go, it's Dad."

Zinaida looked up at him, pale and uncertain. "Do you...do you want me to - "

"No, no, it's ok." He shrugged his damp jacket back on. He paused, and they met each other's eyes again. She was glad he didn't want her to come. He was surprised how certain he was that he did not want her there. Protectiveness and vulnerability had thrown up their barriers and he left without kissing her goodbye.


	15. Chapter 15

Vano's bed was surrounded by attendants when Irakli arrived. The other men in the ward glanced up at him with the look of prey animals in their eyes, silent and serious as one of their own struggled through the last phase of his illness. Irakli went straight to his mother and enfolded her in a hug, holding her tightly as she sobbed while he stared down at his father's face.

Vano didn't, in fact, look any different from Irakli's last visit. He was unconscious and his eyelashes were gilt with sunlight. His brow was fixed in a thoughtful frown, as though unconsciousness was a serious matter that could only be maintained through his full concentration, and his grey-tinged skin was smoother and softer than it had ever been in his life. But the respirator had changed, and the machines by his bedside had changed, and the expressions on the faces around him were grim.

"What's happened?" Irakli asked his mother.

One of the attendants answered him, and as Irakli listened he detected anew the way the doctors had turned to him when he had arrived. Vano was still alive, but it was as though some pact had been sealed, and all the people in the room now looked to Irakli as the head of his family.

They had put Vano into a coma after his breathing had worsened overnight. They were talking about fluid on his lungs and irritation to his airways and the likelihood that he would not be able to breathe unaided after this. Irakli's grip tightened on his mother's shoulders and he wished she would look up from her sobbing so that they might talk to her - each moment of eye contact with the earnest doctors around him left him exhausted.

There were forms to be signed. Consent for things about which Irakli could not begin to imagine what Vano's actual opinions might have been. There was money to be considered - social security had covered the cost of Vano's bed in the shared ward, but a private room, which the doctors now recommended for the final stages of his illness, would require some contribution. Whatever it was, he knew they didn't have it.

Irakli did, momentarily, relish the authority the doctors assigned him when he told them he would return the forms later and wanted to be alone with his parents, but he sensed it was only a brief respite.

Together he and his mother sat by Vano's bed and filled in the forms, and the day was frittered away in the ward as neither of them wanted to suggest leaving him. They could not afford the private room, but they did not talk about it. They would make arrangements to bring Vano back to the apartment instead.

Irakli saw that time had run out and it was time to talk to Zinaida's father.

He was dozing in the chair between Vano's bed and the window, one of the battered books he used to read to his father folded in his lap, when Elizabeth arrived with a priest, who pressed oil onto Vano's wrinkled forehead while chanting prayers.

Irakli shifted at the sound and opened his eyes to see the peace that had come over his mother's face as she watched the priest do his work. He stayed apart, watching the two of them fuss over Vano's body and soul. Elizabeth had been fretting about missing vespers at the church, and must have found the priest assigned to pastoral duty that day to make up for it. Irakli smiled sadly to see her take comfort from the ritual, and she met his eyes and returned the smile.

He let them get on with it, but turned away to look out of the window. The night-time city was overlain with the reflection of the ward, and Irakli had to look past his own tight-jawed expression to see the lights of the other tall buildings around the hospital. He tried to ignore the sound of the murmured words that passed between his mother and the priest, telling himself it was silly to imagine that they were talking about him. Elizabeth had bigger things to concern herself with than his wedding now, surely?

He sensed and shared his mother's reluctance to leave the hospital, but he was hungry and tired, and the buses didn't run all night. He waited for the priest to leave - in the reflection he saw the man hesitate, a dark space between the pale sheets and the pale walls and the pale faces in the ward. The priest looked at Irakli and tried to meet his eyes in the window, but Irakli did not acknowledge him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oml and here we reach the bit where I have to wing the medical bits. Uhh. Hope there's nothing so horribly wrong and jarring that it jolts people out of the story. Do let me know if there are any quick fixes I can make :)


	16. Chapter 16

He and his mother rode the bus back from the hospital in weary silence. Elizabeth tucked her arm into the crook of Irakli's elbow and he laid his hand over hers and watched the nighttime city blur with the rain on the windows: sparkling patches of orange and crisp white, the gaudy splashes of blues and greens outside hotels and casinos.

The sadness he felt knowing that he had had his last conversation with his father was tempered by the realisation that, under sedation, Vano would not suffer as he had increasingly done during their visits. Irakli knew he should feel guilty about it, but there was relief in knowing he would not have to be complicit in any more of Vano's pained struggles to be heard, in any more attempts to pass on lessons that Irakli felt he had already been taught quite well, in any more patiently rehearsed white lies about where he'd gone and with whom in the capital.

Resolutely, he told himself he had nothing else to say to his father, and that he was at peace with that relationship. There was no need to lie to Vano any longer, no need to keep secrets. There was one less person in Irakli's life who could claim to love him but who would have reeled in disgust from the side of himself Irakli kept hidden. He would never have to apologise to Vano, and, for the moment, that realisation was liberating.

Irakli had already taken some leftovers from the fridge and was preparing to reheat them when Elizabeth entered the kitchen with a sigh.

"It's ok, Mum. Go and sit down; put the television on. I'll sort this out."

Usually she would have done as he suggested without complaint - maybe she'd have murmured a word of gratitude or left a kiss on his cheek - but, tired as Elizabeth was, she moved instead to urge him away from the counter.

"This is not your job. You shouldn't be doing these things."

"I don't mind it," he laughed, batting her hand away from the onion he had sliced.

"It isn't right!"

Irakli put the knife down and turned to her with surprise. Elizabeth's voice had been full of something he had never heard before and she held her hand to her mouth, shocked at herself. He reached out to her shoulder but she shrugged his touch off.

"Mum? It's been a long day."

She shook her head and did not move away as tears began to overflow from her eyes. "This isn't right. I've made you do women's work for too long, it's not good for you."

He looked down in bemusement as she tried to shoulder him aside, but he felt her body shake as she burst into deeper sobs. He put his arm around her and she did not resist, but leaned against him, her hands on the edge of the counter, holding it tight to stop her fingers trembling.

Irakli's pulse had quickened with worry, but he made himself smile so that the smile would come through in his voice. "It's just food, Mum. I'm starving is all."

"I thought your father would see you married," Elizabeth finally said, and Irakli sighed.

He managed to peel her away from the counter into a hug, while each avoided showing the other their face. "I don't need to be married to look after you," he said quietly, wondering if the words were as revolutionary as they felt in his mouth. "But I'll talk to Nikoloz soon."

Elizabeth's sobbing was renewed in vigour so that she could not speak, and Irakli could only hold onto her and let it pass. He knew all she wanted to say at that moment: _I wish you'd done it sooner_.

"Go and sit down, Mum," he repeated when she had calmed again. "I'll finish this off."

She pulled away from his embrace and did not look up, but patted his arm gratefully as she left.

Irakli turned back to the leftover dumplings he was going to fry and leaned for a moment on the counter.

In all the complications of the day his mind groped for the thought of something simple. He had thought preparing the leftovers could be such a thing, but now it seemed controversial in a new and needless way.

Irakli worked through the motions of cooking and serving and eating without paying much attention to any of it. His mother was quiet as they sat opposite one another - with ritualistic respect the television was turned off and the space opened up for a family to talk about its day, but Elizabeth managed little more than a murmured, reflexive compliment regarding the food. Irakli batted it back, reminding her that she had made the dumplings herself the day before.

With the dishes done, they watched the last news bulletin of the night together, and Irakli took his phone out of his pocket to stare at the messages Merab had sent and he had never answered. He flicked his thumb over the screen to keep it lit but did not write anything. He was savouring a cigarette and savouring the thought of the things he wished he had said to Merab - none of which he knew he would actually text - but the fantasy warmed him in the aftermath of the day's tensions.

His mother watched him, though he didn't notice her staring for some time. When he looked up, he quashed the guilt that rose to his expression and offered her a smile instead.

She had that thoughtful look on her face that reminded him of school reports and dance recitals: the one that resolved to fix whatever problem her son was confronted with - regardless of his own feelings on the matter. Irakli sighed and made to go to his room, but Elizabeth edged forwards on her chair, reaching out needily to take his hand as he passed by.

"Why don't you come with me to church tomorrow, hm?"

He looked down at her and said nothing. She hadn't been able to make him go for years, and he still remembered the weeks of crying there had been in the apartment when he'd first refused - it had been back when Vano was still relatively strong, and he had defended Irakli's right to figure out how to spend his weekend mornings.

"You'll see him set foot inside the church again on his wedding day, Eliko," Vano had comforted her. "In the meantime let the boy choose for himself. Forcing him will do no good."

"I don't want to, Mum."

She squeezed his hand and smiled, and it almost hid the worry in her eyes. "You haven't been with me in so long. It might make you feel better. You used to like the singing. It will remind you how we used to be, when the three of us would go together every week."

Irakli tried not to roll his eyes; he made himself stop the reflex to pull away from her grip. "I remember it fine. It doesn't help me like it helps you, Mum."

"Please, my love." She held his fingers between hers, her green eyes wide, the fine lines around her mouth scored deep with stubborn fear. "For me, then," Elizabeth cajoled, shaking his hand in hers. "Come for my sake - everyone will be asking about your father. You can give your mother strength."

"For you," he conceded, bending to place a kiss at her hairline before he pulled his hand back and left for his bedroom.


	17. Chapter 17

Irakli surveyed the little room: he had never done much to personalise it, and the walls were peeling in a pattern that no longer indicated where his teenage self had covered them in posters. Vano had stayed there while he had been in Tbilisi, and Vano would be coming back there now - to die in Irakli's bed.

He stifled a shudder and checked that the door was well closed.

It wasn't so much the loss of this private space that raised a feeling of resentment in him, but the thought of attending church with his mother - a place where he would be encouraged to confess and cleanse himself of his past. He felt like his memories were to be prised from him, and though he had returned home expecting, hoping, to forget them on his own terms, once it had become clear that he could not let them go, he had been as jealously possessive of the thought of Merab as he had been over any relationship he'd had.

Sometimes he was exasperated with himself: why was he so determined to stand by something that seemed to have torpedoed his hope of contentment - with Zinaida, with a home, with a quiet family life like everyone else he knew seemed to want here? But he thought of each moment when he had made a decision to act - each moment of astonishment when he had looked at Merab and felt a kick of desire in his body, the strange dizziness of realising what it meant, like he had been presented with a cliff edge and had chosen to leap - and he could not contemplate doing anything differently.

If it was to be his last night in his own room - until...he wouldn't think about that - then he shouldn't waste it. He realised, with a kind of despair that was so familiar as to be almost reassuring, that he wanted to imagine only that he had Merab here with him. In his own room, in the apartment he had grown up in, welcomed into his life, not hidden away from the people he loved.

He leaned back against the door and ran one palm over the front of his body and down to the fastenings of his jeans. He pictured Merab's face as he approached Irakli, he drew on memories snatched as nervous glances, snapshots stolen as he brought Merab to him, as he guided Merab's hands to where his own hand now worked. Irakli closed his eyes and wished he'd kissed Merab on that first night too - he wished he'd had the bravery to stay and to hold him like he had done on the second night.

The memory of Merab's breath hot against his face, his lips against Irakli's ear, was enough to make him buck against the door and gasp. In a rush of urgency, Irakli crossed to the bed and lay down, letting his hand work harder and faster, digging his teeth into his bottom lip, the fingers of his empty hand clenching hard in the bed-covers. They were insubstantial in his grip, nothing like the wiry, hard muscles of Merab's legs, nor the warm, restless strength of Merab's shoulders.

Irakli summoned the sensations of their bodies tangled together against the dirt and the dead leaves: the way Merab's narrow hips fitted against his, his body moving fitfully above Irakli's, the way the muscles of Merab's back shifted beneath Irakli's grasping hands. Irakli wanted to kiss him again more than he'd ever wanted anything.

The motion of his hand grew rough and desperate and Irakli closed his eyes and arched his body against the mattress. The same memories, replayed time and again in his imagination, did their job: he came quickly, biting the back of his free hand to silence the yearning sound that accompanied it.

The buzz of hormones temporarily drew a veil over the dissatisfaction of his life. In his mind he was kissing that fierce pout off Merab's lips, soothing Merab's prickly hurt pride with hands in his hair, hands that also travelled over Merab's smooth, strong body. Irakli's apologies were unspoken, they came through the silent touch of his mouth to Merab's skin, the way their limbs tangled together, the way Irakli imagined enfolding Merab in his arms again and breathing against the warm curve of Merab's neck, his lips moving the gold chain of Merab's necklace beneath his kisses.

He screwed his eyes shut and pressed his teeth into the back of his hand until the skin pinched and he gasped and blinked.

The ceiling above his bed was peeling and cracking - as ugly and grey as his memories were golden and impossibly beautiful. He stared up at it and imagined a lifetime spent pretending to Zinaida that he wasn't always thinking instead of a guy he'd fucked on the dry summer dirt behind an old wine jar. He felt something hysterical push at the back of his throat and bit his hand again as he wondered what would happen if he accidentally said the name _Merab_ when his forehead was buried against Zinaida's fine shoulder.

"Fuck..." Irakli said.

The back of his hand was red and marked and he massaged it as he sat up. He tidied himself and changed his clothes before lying down again to smoke.

He wouldn't be able to put off the meeting with Zinaida's father any longer. He didn't know how he could stop the wedding now, and the need for money for Vano's care was greater than ever. What could he do with this final night of privacy but replay the memories of that weekend in the mountains again?


	18. Chapter 18

The mass went much as Irakli expected and recalled. He stood at the back of the small building and leaned against the wall when he thought he could get away with it. He kept his head down and mostly did not listen to the noise around him, but instead thought about the last time he had been at a service in a church. He thought about Merab in his dark suit. Merab had looked more like he was at a funeral than a wedding - the thin tie was as habitually wonky as his hair was dishevelled, despite Merab's serious efforts to tidy both. Irakli's fingers, interlaced demurely before his body, tingled as he wondered what it would have felt like to loosen the silky synthetic fabric of that tie, to work his fingers between the back of the white shirt collar and up into the hair at the nape of Merab's neck.

He stifled a yawn and a cough at the cloying smoke from the incense burners, mingling with the strong scent of women's best perfumes and men's fresh aftershave.

After the service there was the usual milling around outside the building and in the vicinity. Congregants broke their fasts with strong coffee and blessed bread, huddling like birds in groups on the red brick court at the front of the building. The sense of excitement at being able to share the week's news was exacerbated by the fact that it wasn't raining, and Irakli found himself chatting with a young family - he had been at dance school with the man when they were kids, but Irakli hadn't seen him since he had stopped going to church with his mother.

Joni worked in the management chain of a local supermarket - he didn't miss dancing, but complimented Irakli without prompting.

"You were good, I remember it! You still do it?"

"Not seriously," Irakli demurred, noting the disapproving look in the eyes of Joni's wife as he raised a cigarette to his lips. He replaced it to its packet unlit and offered the round-cheeked child in Keti's arms a cheery smile instead.

He told them an edited version of his time at the National Ensemble and saw Joni's frown deepen as he spoke.

"That makes no sense. Wouldn't the pay have been better than anything you can get here?"

Irakli shrugged. "Yeah, for the main ensemble, I guess. But I'd be travelling and training so much I'd never have seen my dad again."

Joni shook his head. He was another one who didn't think Irakli's priorities could be right. He talked about the support his employer gave him - the radical offer of paternity leave that he had never considered taking up before, but had found to be the best time of his life - oh his mother had thought it was strange but she appreciated it now, and it had been wonderful for Keti, too - he talked about finding their own place to live and nurseries and school preparation, and Irakli listened with an increasing sense of the distance between their worlds.

A few fat drops of rain were starting to fall, and Irakli used the moment as an opportunity to retreat to the church porch with a cigarette, where he could wait until his mother had had her fill of the week's news. He watched people pull their scarves back over their heads, put up umbrellas and hoods and carry right on with their conversations as though no change in the weather could force them to alter their habits.

It wasn't long before he was joined by the priest, now free of his gaudy vestments. Irakli sighed and did not look up from his cigarette as the priest himself settled against the wall close by.

The usual platitudes came without pause: Irakli was welcomed back, his mother's devotion was praised, his father's soul was commended to grace. Then, without preamble - he had other souls to concern himself with, after all - the priest asked him, "When did you last confess, boy?"

Irakli had not gone forward for communion - nor had Elizabeth, because she had not attended vespers or confession the previous night. But Elizabeth was a frequent visitor anyway, while Irakli's sins - he thought cynically - remained a secret the church could not hoard at present.

"I have nothing to confess," Irakli told him.

To his discomfort, the other man chuckled. "Then you would be the only one in this congregation. Are you a saint, boy?" His voice remained almost jovial. "I ask because your mother is concerned. She fears you might have been led astray in some way during your time in the capital."

Irakli dropped the finished butt of his cigarette and lit another one. His pulse was racing like he was about to start a fight, and he did not know whether further denials would be accepted or merely taken as yet more evidence against him.

Besides - the idea that he had been led astray made him want to fill the archway with nervous, loud laughter. In the shadow of the church, his memories seemed to glow even brighter. Led astray? He'd been the one who'd got hard at the touch of Merab's body as they'd wrestled uselessly behind the kvevri. He'd been the one to take Merab's hand and guide it inside his own waistband, down the front of his trousers. He'd been the one who hadn't been able to contemplate doing any of that again without kissing Merab first: hard and passionate and in a way that let him know Irakli wouldn't ever regret what they were about to do.

The intermittent drops of rain were increasing in frequency, slapping hard on the pavement until the concrete darkened all at once with the downpour, and Irakli felt the weather meet his mood and match his pulse. He turned to the priest and thanked him fiercely for his advice before stepping out into the rain and going to retrieve his mother. He took her arm and reminded her that they needed to prepare his bedroom for Vano to come home to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As with the medical stuff I am so sorry if I misrepresent anything about the Orthodox church and services. A lot of the information out there is about the Georgian Orthodox Church in America and I found it hard to tell how similar things are in Georgia.


	19. Chapter 19

On Monday, the machinery that accompanied his father would not fit in the tiny bedroom. There was a panic and a bustle and Elizabeth began to keen and sob, until Irakli smoothly instructed the paramedics to take Vano into his parents' room and reminded his mother that she could still have his bed. The flat was filled with the sharp scent of medical cleanliness and new beeps and whirrs emanated from the bedroom. Elizabeth shook her head and pressed her lips to her clasped hands.

"The electricity! How will we afford it all?"

Irakli placed his arm around her shoulders and squeezed her with all the reassurance he could muster.

The paramedics showed them how to keep Vano clean and comfortable. They kept correcting themselves on timeframes and the regularity with which they should move him and bathe him. They kept remembering that they were discussing palliative care only, and that Vano was not expected to regain consciousness.

Irakli tried to listen, but his mind swerved to other practicalities: what devices they could live without, what meals they could prepare without using the stove. The paramedics brought more forms - he had started to dread the approach of people bearing pens and flopping wads of white paper. He signed and looked up to check his mother was watching - making sure that he was signing in the right place, to the right things - and then they were alone again. A family of three once more.

He made tea and brought it to Elizabeth, who had already settled in a vigilant position by Vano's bedside. She had made no move to shift any of her things through to Irakli's bedroom so he began to do it for her, and he emptied the drawers of his own clothes. He took the TV from its table in the living room and stacked his clothes in its place.

"Mum, I'm going to take this down to Dito's and see what I can get for it. I'll top up the electricity on my way back."

She nodded and did not move, and he thought how much she looked like an empty vessel, hollow and thin-shelled. She was dwarfed by the medical equipment surrounding her marriage bed, small even beside the body of Vano, whose limbs had been left in a luxuriant sprawl across the mattress.

The television was an old cathode ray set, bulky and dusty, and Irakli tried hard not to sneeze as he carried it down the stairs. There was a break in the rain and he didn't want to wait to go out later when he might get caught in a shower, so he set off at a brisk pace for Dito's pawn shop, not bothering with the fuss of getting on and off a bus, or searching for change he did not have with a free hand he did not have. It was a long walk, and it made the muscles in his arms burn with the satisfaction of effort, of energy exerted, and he almost enjoyed the thoughtlessness of the task: placing one foot in front of the other, feeling the bright autumn sun on his face and arms.

It was an old set, but it had been looked after well, and Dito knew Vano and sympathised with Irakli's situation. He gave him a generous price, and it would keep the meter going for a couple of weeks.

He bought credit at the grocery store and selected some fresh-looking fruit and vegetables. Tamar pressed him for all the details, though he knew well enough which ones to provide her with and which to withhold.

"Are you getting much work?"

Irakli smiled innocently. "Why do you ask?"

"Not many weddings at the moment..." Tamar peered at him expectantly.

"No, it's not really the season," he agreed, leaving before she could try again.

When he returned to the flat, Elizabeth had not moved. Her tea sat on the bedside table and the machines linked to Vano clicked and hummed with the same regularity as before.

Irakli cajoled her from the room and set her to hulling hazelnuts, while he sang along to the radio and chopped and ground them. Elizabeth was too worn out to be cheered by this bravura display of her son's former character, however. Quietly she shushed him as she turned the radio volume down and murmured, "You'll disturb your father."

The routine - again, cooking, eating, cleaning by his side - did seem to settle her though, and she was less distant when she did, eventually, go to Irakli's old bedroom and leave Vano for the night.

Irakli spread a sheet over the sofa and stretched out to smoke and check his messages. The sound of the respirator in the next room unsettled him, so he put the radio on again and muffled the noise with cheesy love songs.

Zinaida had texted. She wanted to know whether they had got Vano settled at home. She thought she'd casually let him know her father would be in his office all through the next week. Her offer of help was a clumsy addition to the rest: there was space for Irakli to stay with her family if he needed, but not until they were married. Her parents' liberalism stretched only so far, after all.

Irakli pulled a face and chose not to answer her for the moment. He wouldn't leave his mother in this flat to look after Vano on her own - he could not imagine Zinaida wanting to move in and share the living room with him, either. Sure, he'd heard of people starting families in smaller spaces than their flat, but the thought of doing so made him sick with dismay.

Shota had been texting him too, and Irakli had been avoiding reading the messages. He'd assumed they were invitations to watch the football, and he hadn't been in the mood for the company of his friends. Now, if only to have something to stare at, to stop him thinking about other people's longer-term expectations for him, Irakli finally opened the thread and saw that it was a chain of missives speculating on some gossip from the National Ensemble.

Irakli read Shota's messages hungrily, feeling less and less sleepy as he did.

_Oh it's all change in the capital again - maybe I'll take your old spot. Scandal, Iro!_

_No really, they want two girls and four guys, which do you think I should go for haha_

_How do you lose that many dancers from the National fucking Ensemble? What's up with that? Iro you have to dish the dirt_.

_Anyway let me know. Did you see the Spurs match earlier? Shiiiiiiit_ , _what a score. Remember we watch the league at mine every weekend, you should come round if you're done moping about Tbilisi._ _Ivan's forgotten how boring you were - he wants to know what you think of Bayern's latest signings. We were thinking of reviving the fantasy league if you still have your account?_

_But about the dance - I am actually thinking of it. Do you think I've got a chance? What's the competition like?_

Four guys and two girls? Irakli frowned: they'd want to replace him, and David, and whoever had joined the main ensemble - and Sopo from the troupe of girls. But who were the other two?

He wondered who else might have been tempted to quit and couldn't think of a single person. Maybe Mary, if she lost Merab to the main ensemble?

Irakli's heart thundered with borrowed pride at the thought of Merab in the main ensemble. Rationally, he knew that Vakhtang was the most likely candidate to have been picked, but that just made Irakli realise how much he hoped Merab had gotten the place anyway. How much he wanted Merab to have got what he'd worked so hard for.

He looked at Shota's words again. Scandal? Did Shota know anything more, or was he just being his usual melodramatic self?

He could always text and ask Merab what had happened.

Irakli laid his palm over his chest to feel his ribs vibrate with the strength of his heartbeat. He longed to know how Merab's audition had gone. The last time he'd seen Merab, he'd thought it the least important thing in the world - to miss out on an audition as his father lay dying and his mother begged him to help her stabilise their family. But now everything linked to that seemed inevitable - while Merab's audition, his dancing, _him,_ were uncertain, up for grabs, filled with a potential that Irakli's life was sorely lacking.

He lit another cigarette: the action kept his fingers from hovering over the keyboard on his phone. He couldn't text Merab out of the blue about stuff like that. It wouldn't be fair.

The reality of this estrangement took him by surprise though, and made his eyes sting. The messages in his phone were not an invitation to stay in touch anymore, but a reminder of why Irakli had had to leave. He could carry them around in his pocket, guilty about never having answered them, until his phone broke or he replaced it and then...there would be nothing left. He might find out if Merab had made it into the main ensemble, but if Merab hadn't been chosen, then that would be it. All he would ever know about Merab was contained in the memories he already had.

Irakli wondered if the strength of the feeling that threatened to overwhelm him was a displaced response to the man dying in the next room. The possibility didn't make him miss Merab any less. He stared at his phone screen and sniffed the build-up of emotion away, swiping at the moisture under his eyes. He lay back on the couch to finish his cigarette, his phone on his chest and his free hand inside his pocket.

Every damned song on the radio was about love.

He jumped at the sound of his mother's voice, and his phone slid off his body to the floor with a thud.

"Could you switch that off, Irakli? I can't sleep with it on. If something happens to the machines I won't hear it." Elizabeth stood in the doorway of his old bedroom, her arms folded tight over her dressing gown. She blinked and frowned as her eyes adjusted to the light.

"Are you _smoking_? With your father in this apartment struggling to breathe?"

He moved with guilty speed to switch the radio off and pick his phone up off the floor, as though she'd caught him busy at something more damning than smoking. "Mum, he's on a respirator, it's filtered - " he started to say, but caught her expression and switched to apology, stubbing out the half-finished cigarette.

She returned to the other room with a weary sigh, and left Irakli feeling more wretched than ever. It was lashing with rain outside - not the time to nip out to finish his cigarette - and the sound of the medical equipment seemed louder when he turned the lamp off. He folded his arms and tried to settle into the cushions of the couch, turning his face against the rough weave of fabric that smelled of home. It wasn't as comforting as it used to be.


	20. Chapter 20

Zinaida's father ran a company with his brother that bought out the shells of old buildings and refitted them for foreign students or foreign businessmen. His office was by the port, and the view from the window was criss-crossed by the lattice of cranes and ships' towers. The room was a glorified shipping container itself, but with the severe, sharp-edged desk between himself and Nikoloz, Irakli felt the disparity of their positions all too keenly.

" _Aba_. Ok then. You want to marry my Zinaida."

"Yes, sir."

"You know, she's called you her boyfriend for, what, two years now? And I don't feel I know the first thing about you."

Irakli let out a small laugh and shrugged. He held Nikoloz's gaze in silence for a moment before he realised he was being invited to explain himself. "Ah, what's to know?"

Nikoloz raised his brows and Irakli shifted in the seat opposite him. The charm offensive only worked with women of a certain age - with men like Nikoloz, he was left feeling faintly ridiculous, like he was wearing a poor disguise that the other person saw straight through. His habitual defence against this sensation was to refuse to take middle-aged men as seriously as they demanded - but that was not an option when you were trying to arrange a marriage with the daughter of the middle-aged man in question.

Reluctantly, Irakli gave Nikoloz a resumé, of sorts. His commitment to his mother and his sick father featured strongly, as did the discipline required to dance as well as he did. Uncertainly, he added the fact that he had achieved adequate grades at high school and that he spoke a little Russian and a little German. He mentioned his love of football and the teams he supported.

Nikoloz's expression did not change as Irakli spoke, but when he finished, Nikoloz made a sound of satisfaction and folded his hands on the table between them. "And why do you want to marry my daughter now?"

Irakli grimaced at the question. He heard its unspoken conclusion in his head: _why not two years ago_? He mumbled uncomfortably about his father's worsening condition and his mother's isolation. "I want to do the right thing by her," he finished, summoning some steel to his voice and meeting Nikoloz's eyes.

It was Nikoloz's turn to shrug. "No mention of love?"

Irakli studied him sharply in return, wondering if the question was some sort of trap. It wasn't a concern he had expected from Nikoloz, and Nikoloz had mentioned it in a casual tone, like he was asking Irakli about the weather.

"Should that matter?" he countered.

This display of defiance raised a smile to Nikoloz's thin lips. "Boy, I have three daughters. Whether it should matter or not is irrelevant: it does. But Zinaida is the least sentimental of them, I admit. If you and she are on the same page, then that's enough for me."

It was relief that made his heart thump suddenly, wasn't it? Things were falling into place, life was settling around him, he had, somehow, convinced all necessary parties that he and Zinaida should marry. A young couple getting married! How cheering for those who were saddened by Vano's immanent death and Elizabeth's looming loneliness.

Irakli made himself nod. "Of course. We know each other better than anyone." He realised he was echoing what Zinaida had said in the café, when he had clumsily tried to break up with her. The words rang hollower than he'd understood even then.

Nikoloz did not notice, but made a sound that might have been a laugh, though his eyes did not respond with any warmer feeling.

Nikoloz's next statement made Irakli's skin tighten as though a cold breeze had entered the room, though it concerned another topic he had intended to broach himself.

"You'll need a job, of course."

"I dance, sir, I..."

"Yes, yes. Weddings don't pay quite as well as the touring ensemble though, do they, boy?" Nikoloz swept a hand through the air - it was a gesture his daughter had learned so well to imitate - and Irakli saw again in that motion all he had lost by missing the audition for the main ensemble. He clenched his jaw and forced his gaze back up from the table to Nikoloz's face: here was a father to replace the one who had raised him; here was a man who would take the details of Irakli's life in hand now that he had proven he was incapable of arranging matters for himself. Wasn't that what he had always wanted? For others to make the big decisions for him?

"No, we'll need to get you a man's job," Nikoloz continued. "You're strong - you must be to dance - you can join my nephew at an old block we've acquired on Wednesday. It needs stripping out and refitting - you can start with the unskilled work, and my nephew will train you up to a specialism. We'll start with an hourly wage and talk again after a month, hmm?"

Irakli made himself ask how much; he knew he would accept it whatever it was, but at least if he asked he could feel like it was a choice.

The words of thanks he gave stuck in his throat, but he forced them out anyway. He shook Nikoloz's hand and left the room, which was dry and over-warm from the fan heater under Nikoloz's desk. The sharp sea air outside made Irakli cough afterwards, and he lit a cigarette and began the long, meandering walk along the coast that would take him back into the heart of town.


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Givi calls Irakli and Shota 'Avtandil and Tariel' - these are the names of the heroes of the Georgian medieval epic [The Knight in the Panther's Skin](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Knight_in_the_Panther%27s_Skin).  
> Addressing someone by their first name as a formality is fairly common in the languages of the region. It makes me happy, because it saved me having to invent a surname for Irakli XD

He didn't tell the teacher it was his last day until after the class. Irakli changed out of his black practice clothes and folded them neatly into his bag. The thought crossed his mind that he might be able to sell them on to one of the other dancers, but he shoved it away - he could worry about that later; he needed to wash them first at least. Elizabeth might be able to neaten up the shoes so he could get a better price for them. No need to hurry.

Shota wouldn't let him go on his own - he was determined to quiz Irakli about the Tbilisi ensemble and his chances of joining it, and he insisted that if he let Irakli out of his sight he'd probably slip off without a word like he kept doing recently. Irakli couldn't be bothered to argue the point - it ought to be a straightforward enough conversation with Mr. Givi.

Givi cut a more forgiving figure than Aleko had in Tbilisi. His wife had taught at the junior school Irakli had gone to, and Givi had instructed Irakli in dance since he had started lessons at thirteen. He beckoned Irakli into his small office and gestured to him to sit, which Irakli only did so that Shota could move into the doorway too.

"Well, it's Avtandil and Tariel. What do you want?"

Shota grinned. "I'm just here for moral support."

Irakli rolled his eyes and told Givi without any preamble that he had to quit. "I'm starting work for my fiancée's family tomorrow. I won't have time to dance here anymore."

Givi did not seem surprised, but Irakli avoided the easy sympathy in his eyes. "I see. I know it's not what you'd have hoped for when you came back, losing your duets because you'd been at the National Ensemble. We'll miss your experience though, Mr. Irakli."

Irakli met his gaze briefly - Givi was the only person who insisted on calling him that and not _boy_. "Thank you, sir."

"And - " Irakli shifted, turning his face away from the door, his hands clasped between his knees. "Thanks for your help getting me to the National Ensemble. It was a great opportunity," he mumbled these last words, thinking of all the dancing he'd done outside the studio in Tbilisi.

Givi spoke softly: "It is important that you saw your father before he worsened. I'm sorry the rest didn't work out. Have you ever thought of teaching?"

Irakli laughed, but Givi's expression was earnest.

"Ah, I don't think it's likely." He sat back and shook his head dismissively. He couldn't imagine how something like that could come to pass - training cost money and time. Money and time that he didn't expect to be able to spare as his life tumbled inevitably into the patterns dictated by work and family.

"And what about you, Mr Shota? You're not leaving me as well, I hope?" Givi saw his awkwardness and did not press Irakli.

Shota shrugged. "Actually I was thinking of applying to the National Ensemble too. But I wanted to know why so many dancers have left there recently. Maybe the teacher is mean, and not like you, Mr Givi."

Givi raised his brows and sighed. "Well, you see one of them here," he gestured to Irakli. "I hear one couple left to get married. Or to study. Or was that another girl? One boy has joined the main ensemble."

Irakli's heart was pounding all of a sudden. He looked up at Givi, who was focussed on Shota. "Do you know the name of the guy they chose?" he had to ask. The need to know overwhelmed him.

Givi pondered the ceiling. "It was...hm. Began with a V. Vazha?"

Irakli felt the blood drain from his face, leaving him cold and dizzy. "Vakhtang. Not Merab?"

"No, no. I did hear that name mentioned though." Givi didn’t seem to have noticed the quaver Irakli had felt in his own voice, or the way his fingers, interlaced between his knees, had paled as he clenched one hand tight against the other. "Friend of yours?"

Irakli shrugged - too soon to be in answer to the question, he thought, but still Givi did not seem to detect anything strange. He was as laconic and unruffled as ever.

"Yes, Aleko told me over the phone. One of their dancers decided to make a spectacle of himself during the auditions. Beso was furious! The old bird does love to get riled up. I don't know if they kicked the lad out or if he chose to go."

Irakli felt like the floor beneath him had dropped away. A spectacle? Merab kicked out? Or, even harder to explain, _choosing_ to leave? Irakli thought of the furious defensiveness in Merab's face when he had asked him how long he had been dancing. He just could not imagine Merab leaving the ensemble.

"Ah, scandal, I knew it!" Shota rubbed his palms together. "Thank you, Mr Givi - I'll get all the details from Irakli. Will you support my application?"

"Yes, yes. Put a routine together, we'll go through it." Givi waved them out of his office and Irakli followed Shota in a daze, his knees feeling stiff and his thoughts in chaos.

He didn’t know how he answered Shota's questions. He must have done, because Shota left him with a hearty slap on his back when they reached Irakli's block.

"Thanks, Iko - Aleko sounds like fun! But I think they could do with more hard-muscled Adjarian men from the sound of it..."

Irakli went up to the apartment and sat heavily on the couch. He took out his phone and stared at the screen. A list of unanswered texts from two months ago glowed accusatorily back. His thumbs hovered over the keyboard, but he couldn’t type anything.

What could he say?

_I heard you made 'a spectacle' of yourself._

_Was it my fault?_

_If it wasn't my fault that's fine, I mean, you have your own stuff going on anyway, right?_

_I only knew the things David told me. I should have asked you. I never really spoke to you, did I?_

_But was it my fault?_

_I didn't want to hurt you. I didn't want to say no either._

_I guess I want it to be my fault, because then it would mean I was still in your life, somehow._

_That you still thought about us, too._

_That it hurt for you still, too._

_I want it to be my fault because I deserve to feel guilty about being too scared to stay._

_But if it was my fault, could you ever forgive me?_

_What did you do, Merab?_

_I want to blame you for making me feel like this. But now I can't imagine what I was like before, and I wouldn't give back that weekend at the vineyard for anything._

_I don't regret what we did. I think about it all the time, actually._

_I wish I'd known how to be brave enough for you._

_How can I say sorry when I'm the one who left. I couldn't even stick the party out because I couldn't think about seeing your face after that. I wanted to remember your smile instead._

_I didn't want to remember anything, actually. But I do._

_I can't imagine you not dancing._

_What did you do?_

_What will you do?_

The door of the room Vano was in creaked and Irakli jumped. "Is that you home, my boy?" Elizabeth called.

"It's me, mum!"

He let the phone drop on the couch beside him without composing a single message.


	22. Chapter 22

He was at the building site for an even earlier start than dance practice.

Irakli looked up at the rust-gnawed corrugated iron cladding and squinted. Rays of the low morning sun were reflected down from one of the windows in the old building above him. Sounds of activity were already emerging from inside - a radio crackled with foreign pop tunes, male voices echoed around empty rooms and the crunch and thud of storage units being demolished formed an irregular, accompanying percussion.

Giorgi was explaining the plans he and his father and uncle had for the place: new cladding, new insulation, new innards. Irakli wasn't sure what that left of the original building, but he supposed it was the kind of thing he'd be expected to pick up as he worked.

The alley they stood in was shadowed by the surrounding blocks - Giorgi's project had been wedged between even older structures and looked, to Irakli's untrained eye, to be leaning on its neighbours wearily. The corners of the alley were dusted with frost and the night's fine powder of snow, and Irakli smoked to warm himself. He was wearing one of his father's old flannel jackets and he kept his hands stuffed in his armpits, but the cold bit through his jogging trousers and all the layers he wore.

He'd got on Giorgi's good side quickly by offering him one of his cigarettes, though Giorgi did not seem affected by the dawn chill. He was a stocky guy who wore new-looking denims and talked genially to Irakli about his young family and his money-making aspirations. He didn't know much about his cousin Zinaida - he insisted that all his cousins liked to stay in the kitchen when they got together as a family. Irakli guessed that Zinaida and her sisters probably did so to drink and gossip about their relatives in peace rather than to perfect the domestic necessities expected by the men.

Still, Giorgi liked football, and that was something they could talk about easily. He introduced Irakli to the other workers as a Barcelona fan - the responding combination of approval and approbation was to be expected, and Irakli managed a cheerful laugh that showed his breath as a cloud even indoors.

The other men were stripping out old kitchen units and in-wall storage. It was standard Soviet construction and Irakli gazed around the low-ceilings and thin partition walls and gave a shudder. "Wow. You know, my dad probably helped put this up..."

Giorgi missed the note of concern in Irakli's voice and slapped his shoulder. "It runs in the family, then! He'd be proud to know you're going to help give the place a new lease of life."

Before he knew it, Irakli was left in the care of the other workers. He was handed a screwdriver and a claw hammer and told to start removing the doors and drawers of the units they hadn't got to yet.

The lino and plaster-board were old and gummy and the screws were rusting - brute force was necessary more often than precision or patience. Irakli flinched every time one of the other men cracked a piece of cladding or board under his boot or across his knee. He dipped his nose beneath the collar of his jacket - ostensibly to keep warm, because he knew that no cloth filter would make any difference if this was made of the same stuff that had poisoned his father - and he reassessed the bravado he had once felt in his certainty that his life would work out differently from Vano's.

At first his work was slow and he was careful, trying not to cause unnecessary damage as he pried hinges and bolts apart. The other men talked as they worked, and that kept Irakli from getting frustrated with his progress. Instead, he paused often to look up and answer their questions - at least until he grew tired of the conversation.

He ran through the usual stories for the other guys and gritted his teeth in a smile as they followed up with familiar queries about how long he had been with Zinaida and what she was like. An extra layer of delicacy was required as they drew with mirth on her family connection - would they know she was related to Giorgi if they saw her?

"Only because she'd take charge of this whole site," Irakli said grudgingly, and turned away as their speculations about this boss-lady ran wild.

Listening to them was enough to make him throw caution to the wind. So what if this building was full of the stuff that was killing Vano? Wasn't that as much what he'd come home for as supporting his mother at church, going on dates he didn't care about and accepting that dance would never be a career open to a man from his kind of background? It was all or nothing: he'd left it all in Tbilisi, he told himself, and swung the hammer mercilessly at a stubborn bracket. Now he was here with nothing - why bother worrying?

The others were happy to see him throw his weight behind the work, and they settled into a more companionable near-silence so that lunchtime arrived heralded only by their wheezing breaths and grunts of effort, by the clatter of panels and brackets being hurled aside.

Irakli had stopped feeling the cold. He didn't care about the way his palms chafed against the grips of the tools. He didn't have to think when he worked and - at that point - the situation suited him just fine.

The radio played the same songs he had heard on the bus journeys between Batumi and Tbilisi. The other men talked about their lives as they ate: their short term ambitions related to women and rivalries; the borrowed glories of sporting success for their teams and the swagger of politicians that made them feel safe from their neighbours. Irakli understood the scope of this world and he tried to remember what it had felt like to fit himself within it - but, he supposed, he'd never really believed he would have to. Dance had been a way out, and he'd always admired the way Zinaida dreamed of studying abroad and rising above the shop floor - not just for the money, like Giorgi, but because she knew she could do more.

Still, he stumbled through the afternoon by pretending to be as interested in rugby as the other guys and by comparing his experiences of local bars and clubs to theirs. They felt like memories from another person's life, but he could joke with the men about the schools they had attended, the classes they had skipped and the teachers they had defied. He still knew how to make friends on behalf of that carefree person he had been - he just felt like he was skirting all the most important details of his life in order to do so.

When he left, the sun was setting - some of the others were going to a bar, but Irakli took his pay from Giorgi and headed straight home. His hands were raw and his body ached in a way it did not after dancing. He coughed at the sharp air blowing in from the sea and smelled the dust on his clothes - even his cigarettes tasted of dust.

Elizabeth had prepared his supper and already cleaned and moved his father without help, and Irakli sat down at the little table alone as she finished tidying the kitchen. He watched her, wondering what the source of his guilt was, why he didn't feel proud after his day's work, and grateful to come home and be cared for.

He didn't tell her about the old building or the dusty air, and he concealed his red, chapped palms from her - it was just another thing to hide, after all. Soon, they'd be rough and hard like his father's used to be and maybe, with time, the rest of him would grow a callus too, and he'd be able to talk about things like Tbilisi and dance, romance and flirting, without thinking immediately of all that he must not say.


	23. Chapter 23

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things are going to get awkward with Zinaida. The next few chapters (up to Ch. 32) are not at all a good time for Irakli, **if you need warnings for specifics please check the notes at the end of this chapter** , but skip them if you don't want spoilers :)

Zinaida was pleased with the fact that she had managed to borrow her sister's car for the afternoon. She greeted Irakli outside his apartment block, leaning against the bonnet and holding the keys up in one hand. Her other hand rested on the front pocket of her jeans, and she was acutely aware of the foil sachet within.

The previous winters, they had cultivated a habit of driving up into the countryside when the weather was bad and the holiday homes were empty, where they would find a secluded place to park - that might have had spectacular views if the rain and the mists had ever lifted - and while away the time entwined on the back seat, laughing at the cramped conditions and the way the seatbelt buckles dug into their bodies when they moved without caution.

Since he'd come back, there had been few enough occasions they'd been alone together, and each time she had been rebuffed because Irakli had not come prepared. On this occasion, Zinaida was determined to take matters into her own hands. It would cheer him up, as well as her, she reasoned - the brooding look suited him well enough, but she missed his laughter more than she had expected to, and she missed the feeling of his fingers raking along her back and his strong body supporting hers.

She saw him even less now that he worked with her cousin Giorgi - his days were long and she didn't like meeting him at the building site. The other men he worked with were the kind she preferred to avoid, who either stared brazenly or acted like she wasn't there. Irakli wouldn't hang around after work with her either, though she might walk back to his place with him - he wanted to be there to help Elizabeth care for Vano, and Zinaida could not understand why he felt he needed to share all those jobs with his mother when he was already bringing home his earnings.

On the weekends if they met up he was tired and irritable, distracted by worry and impatient at life. When she had heard that the building had nearly been stripped, and he might finish work early on Friday, Zinaida begged her sister for the car - she was now in debt to the sum of dish-washing for two months' worth of family visits.

But she had asked Irakli to come by the flat when he'd cleaned up after work and he had evidently found no reason to say no. Elizabeth had, perhaps, given him the nudge he needed. Now, Zinaida was resolved that she would not bother provoking him with questions and plans for the future: she was going to take him up to her uncle's empty summerhouse, park the car, and get him to let go of his frustration in the most straightforward manner possible.

Irakli granted her a look of amusement when she buckled herself into the driver's seat and pulled the condom from her pocket to toss it into his lap.

"No excuse this time," she grinned, and wished she'd leaned over to kiss him before she'd started driving.

Outside the city, the road wound up to meet the sky, and the clouds were as dark as the wet tarmac. Zinaida sang along to the radio, and Irakli watched her with a fond smile and an occasional frown, as though he was trying to remember the words to the songs she accompanied.

Beneath the opaque strokes of rain lashing the windscreen, the inside of the car was curtained like an opulent bed. Zinaida parked cautiously, a good distance from the road, on the lane leading to the family cabin that she knew to be empty. She reserved no caution for herself, and leaned over to kiss Irakli with the pent-up impatience of months spent waiting for him to return from Tbilisi - waiting for all of him to return.

It took him a moment to catch up with her frantic touch, but she sighed happily when his hands slid, warm and weighty, around her torso and up her back. She'd missed the taste of him: not the brief cool peck of alcohol he'd leave on her lips at the end of a night, but the way smoke and spices mingled with the scent of his aftershave as she kissed him.

Getting into the back seat without leaving the car was always ridiculous - Zinaida slipped between the chairs as easily as she could, twisting to face Irakli, encouraging him to run his hands over the skin-tight material of her leggings. She absorbed his expression as he watched his own touch move up to her thighs: he licked his bottom lip and his cheeks took on new colour.

Zinaida drew him between the seats towards her with grasping hands on his clothes.

"Jesus, come on, you'll stretch it," he grumbled as she pulled at his top, but he carried on kissing her as he squirmed his way between the seats, the skin of his hands newly rough beneath her clothes as her fingers made a mess of his hair.

"I'll get you a new one from my shop," she giggled. With deliberately careless gestures, she tugged the hem towards her and up. A stitch or two cracked in protest and Irakli's arms were trapped in the rumpled fabric when Zinaida drew it over his chest and head and left him entangled while she kissed him again and dragged her fingers down and up through the hair on his chest and stomach.

And still, he didn't laugh with her, but he closed his eyes and leaned into the kiss even as he worked to free his arms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Slightly spoilery content warnings for the next few chapters, skip what you need to skip - if anyone needs more specific tags or warnings or any more detail please just let me know.
> 
> Ch. 23  
> would be dubcon if gone through with, but it doesn't happen. Main warning is for excruciating awkwardness.  
> Ch. 24  
> alcohol, toxic masculinity, homophobia  
> Ch. 26  
> hangover, homophobic slurs, parental homophobia, vomiting  
> Ch. 29  
> homophobic violence, slurs  
> Ch. 30  
> description of bruising, injury, internalised homophobia and guilt


	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are some specific content warnings for a few of these chapters in the notes at the end of Chapter 22.

It had not been what he'd expected when she'd invited herself over, but the drive had at least given him the chance to think about it, to admire her sharp profile and remind himself that she was still beautiful, even if he'd stopped noticing it so often. It was an opportunity to test his fears, he supposed: was he still able to be with Zinaida after Merab? Would he be able to forget that weekend while he was with her, to stop thinking about how different Merab had felt against him?

As he shouldered his way between the front seats and ran his palms over her body, kissing her hungrily before he twisted his hips through into the back of the car, he knew that there would be no practical problems beyond the usual indecision about where to put his limbs when they were on the back seat together. Whatever distance he maintained in his own mind was irrelevant to his body, which yearned for Zinaida as it always had done.

Once she'd got his top off, Zinaida pulled her own sweater off and started to undo his belt and jeans, and Irakli kissed her neck and collarbone, rushing through familiar motions, trying to remember what had gone through his head when they spent their afternoons this way before.

Nothing much, other than _I want_ , was the answer, but now, still, though he gasped at the feeling of her hand inside his underwear, though he was hot and eager with desire, his thoughts were tangled with reluctance, soon bordering on resentment.

After the first night with Merab, he'd wondered if it had just been a reaction of his body that he couldn't control. After the second night, he'd known it was more than that. And now, swift on the heels of the realisation that he _could_ do this with Zinaida, came the certainty that he did not want to.

But he did not stop her as she climbed onto his lap. There was the pull of her physicality as she half-straddled him, one hand massaging between his legs, the other at the back of his head, tilting it back as she kissed him. He felt like he was watching himself, under some external pressure that told him he'd never know if he could pretend his way through life if he didn't go through with this now.

If he could make her think it was fine this once, he could do so again, and again, and - that would be it. He'd keep pretending until he believed it, or he forgot Merab, or he didn't have to believe it any more because he and Zinaida had grown distant and cool in old age together.

It would never again be like that one night that had ended with Merab curled in his arms against the old kvevri. It couldn't be, because he'd never had to choose Zinaida in the same way he had chosen Merab - summoning all of his courage in answer to a need that he could not ignore when he looked at the other person, even though everything else he thought he knew said it was wrong.

The realisation came like a sudden pain in his chest, and Irakli made a sound of discomfort beneath her rough kisses.

He worried that he'd already let things go too far as Zinaida pushed him against one of the back doors and shuffled away to pull at his jeans. Irakli's voice was hoarse when he reached out and grabbed her wrist, his eyes wide with a warning. "Wait. Wait."

She stared at him, her cheeks flushed, her chest pink above her pale lacy bra. "Wait? What?"

His fingers flexed on her wrist and against the back of the front passenger seat. There shouldn't have been any doubt about it: her rose-petal mouth was wet, her blonde hair fell artfully around her face and shoulders, she was exactly what he should have wanted. But he shook his head and squeezed himself further away from her against the door.

"I don't want to."

Zinaida blinked at him, and the colour in her cheeks deepened. With crass deliberation she looked him up and down and pulled a face. "Could have fooled me."

Irakli swore and tugged his trousers and underwear back up. Every move was made awkward by the constraints of the inside of the car - he bruised and scraped his elbows against the door, and had to avoid trapping Zinaida's fingers beneath his feet as he levered himself up to pull on his trousers. His top was warm from being trapped under her body and she flung it hard at Irakli's face. Then she snapped at him for nearly hitting her chin with his knee and, already defensive, he responded in kind. "Oh come on, you said you'd been seeing guys while I was away - you can't be feeling that deprived."

As an attempt to deflect his own guilt, it failed instantly and miserably. The rain battered the car roof so he could barely hear himself think, but he knew it had been a stupid thing to say as soon as the words were out of his mouth.

"I went out for _dinner_ ," she said frostily. "But I guess you were doing more than that with your girl in Tbilisi."

He sighed and settled himself in the seat, glaring at the water pouring in a constant grey glaze down the outside of the window.

Zinaida gave a brittle laugh as she watched him. "Oh my god, you really fell in love with her, didn't you? Really, _really_?"

He rolled his eyes. "What? No. It's not like that."

You didn't fall in love with people after mucking around on a weekend at a summerhouse. You didn't fall in love with a guy all of a sudden, when you'd never looked twice at anyone other than women before. He was just figuring out what it meant for him still, and it was taking time - what with his parents to worry about and the added complication of the engagement and this new job for Nikoloz and Giorgi. Between the pressure he felt on all sides, he knew only that he'd _wanted_ Merab in a way that he no longer wanted Zinaida - had probably never wanted her to the same extent.

But in any case, Irakli told himself stubbornly, however good the sex had been, the relationship with Merab was just something that hadn't been allowed to run its natural course. It could never have lasted, even if Irakli had stayed - what if one of them joined the Main Ensemble? What if neither of them did? They'd have nowhere to go together, they'd never keep it hidden from the other dancers. Merab wasn't subtle enough for that, Irakli thought, with an unexpected pang of fondness.

Next to him, Zinaida pulled her top back on and flicked her hair free with sharp, angry movements.

"Look, this was a bad idea," Irakli muttered at the window.

"You can say that again," she answered drily.

There was nowhere to go when the rain was like this. It was a near solid barrier, encasing them together with his own stupid mistakes. "I don't think I can do this."

The "oh?" that Zinaida uttered was meant to sound defiant, but he heard her voice waver with emotion.

He glanced once, warily over at her. "I fucked up. I shouldn't have asked you to marry me."

She mirrored his pose and fiddled with the hem of her top, straightening and folding it compulsively. "Why did you?" she asked him - almost too quietly to be heard over the rain on the metal roof.

Without thinking much about it, he shrugged and gave the usual answer. "For my mother, I guess."

"Hmm." She continued to look down at her lap. There was a new steeliness in her voice when she finally spoke again. "I think I would have been ok with that, if it was true. I like Elizabeth. Look at all she's done for you, the sacrifices she's made. The least you could do is be there for her now when she needs you."

Irakli raised his head to frown at Zinaida, who ignored him. "I _am_ here for her. I came back, didn't I?"

She snorted derisively, but when she blinked there was a new gloss on her eyes. She raised her brows at the back of the driver's seat. "Did you? Anyway, it feels more like you were trying to forget someone else by getting engaged to me. Well it's ok - I don't want to pretend either, not like this."

Relief came instantly at her words, soon followed by a nauseous guilt at the potency of the relief. But some of the tautness left the muscles of his neck and shoulders, and he closed his eyes and released a long breath.

"It's off, then?"

Zinaida combed her fingers through her hair restlessly and blinked too quickly. She drew in a short breath through her nose and composed herself, but did not look at him. "It's off."

She climbed into the front as elegantly as possible. She checked the tears in her lashes in the rear view mirror and flicked a couple of strays specks of mascara away.

"Well?" She met his eyes in the reflection. "Are you getting in the front? I'm not your chauffeur."

It was still pouring outside, so Irakli squeezed stiffly between the chairs and into the front passenger seat. Zinaida did not switch the radio on, but drove in pale-knuckled, tight-jawed silence. A number of times she opened her mouth, but shook her head in exasperation and said nothing.

Irakli watched the towers of the buildings in Batumi resolve themselves from the dark smudge of the rain. He reassured himself that it wouldn't be long until he could put this whole thing behind him.

They'd reached the Chorokhi and the city boundary before Zinaida's simmering fury found words. "You know, you are going to feel like such an idiot when you get over this person and realise that life goes on! I'll have my business qualification - my own shop in the mall." She slapped the steering wheel with her palm and stared in determination at the traffic lights until they turned green - as though she had willed it to happen. "Or maybe I'll move to Russia. And you'll be one of those guys living at home with his mum, past it as soon as you can't dance at weddings anymore, an embarrassment to your family, something for the old ladies at church to pity."

He didn't mean to rise to meet her anger, but it had been a long few weeks at the construction site; evening was drawing in and he was tired, feeling bruised right through to his bones. He was sick of having to tiptoe around her feelings. His lip curled as he glared out through the rain-sprayed windows. "Oh, coming home to look after my mother makes me an embarrassment now?"

She made a disgusted sound. "You know what? If you're just going to waste the rest of your life moping after some lost love - yeah, it does."

Shifting his chin against his hand and injecting as much passive-aggression as he could into his voice, Irakli laughed wryly. "I can think of a few things that would embarrass my mother more."

Zinaida glanced at him with a frown. "I don't know where you get the guts to act like you're the victim here!"

"No, you don't know..." He continued to stare at the streets as the evening deepened to blue and the city's lights sprayed their gaudy glitter on all the wet surfaces.

She stabbed the brake harder than she needed to at the next set of lights. "No! I don't know! Because you don't fucking tell me anything!"

Irakli stirred himself and sighed. He was sorry it had ended like it had, but he didn't want to hang around any longer. "Akh, what's to tell - I'll walk from here. Tell your dad to let me know if I'm fired." He released his seatbelt and got out before Zinaida could move off as the lights changed. She stared after him in astonishment until the car behind her sounded its horn, but Irakli didn’t turn back as he slipped his jacket on over the already damp fabric of his top.

The rain, relentless, soaked his face and hair after only a few paces. It got down the back of the neck of his jacket and it tugged at the cuffs of his jeans and wormed its way inside the thin material of his sneakers. It wasn't worth trying to light a cigarette, but at least the air wasn't too cold - the walk home would be uncomfortable, but it wasn't quite foolhardy.

His jeans were heavy with water from the puddles and overworked gutters when he came to the little play park near the apartment block. Without really thinking about it, he sat down heavily on a bench by the street - it was wet, but so were his clothes, and the rain continued. There was no one else around, even though it wasn't that late, and he felt alone, finally, and wondered why he wasn't grateful for it.

With a muffled sound, Irakli let his face drop into his hands as the tears overcame him all of a sudden. Whatever, whoever they were for, they wouldn't be denied any longer, and he let the weather disguise them.


	25. Chapter 25

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note on Georgian language: it doesn't have gendered pronouns or gendered grammatical markers, so it's pretty easy to talk about someone and not specify their gender at all. It's a whole lot easier if you're not super drunk and emotional though.
> 
> There are some specific content warnings for a few of these chapters in the notes at the end of Chapter 22.

He didn't know how to tell his mother that the engagement was off. He had no idea what he would do on Monday morning if he found he wasn't welcome at the construction site. He couldn't stay in the flat when he had nowhere to hide the puffiness around his eyes and the shell-shocked expression he couldn't wipe off his face. He snuck into the bathroom and tidied himself up; he tended to Vano before Elizabeth could come and help, and he was away again having barely exchanged a handful of words with her.

Irakli texted Shota and bought beer and vodka on his way over to the apartment where Shota lived with his parents. Shota’s mum often worked night shifts and his dad worked on the ferries that crossed the Black Sea – his place was the best place to watch the football, he had the right channels and a big TV screen, and his mum always made sure the fridge was full of snacks. When Irakli arrived, they killed time by reviving Irakli's fantasy football account on Shota's computer, and Shota told him about everything he'd missed at the studio in the last few weeks, including the routine he was putting together for his audition in the capital.

Ivan and Viktor arrived with snacks and more bottles between them, and they settled down to watch the late night broadcast of the Champions League.

He admitted to the break-up a few drinks in, somewhere around half-time, when the match wasn't going too well and he felt like it was emblematic of everything else in his life. The smile hung crookedly on his face as he tried to joke about it, but he didn't succeed in maintaining eye contact with his friends as he explained that he and Zinaida would not be getting married.

His friends were cautious with their responses, unsure whether he wanted to celebrate freedom or drown his sorrows. Either way, it was deemed a suitable time to bring out the chacha and other spirits.

Irakli let himself be submerged in the happy haze of companionship as the four of them squeezed on a single couch at Shota's house, passing bottles and snacks back and forth, chatting about the game and the league table rather than focussing on real life troubles. When Barcelona scored, he felt some of the weary pressure he had been under lift at last. They all roared, Irakli slapped Ivan's knee, Shota threw his arm around Irakli's shoulder and Victor planted an ironic kiss on Ivan's cheek.

After the match, they went out: a huddled gang preceded by the rising noise of their laughter, fortified by alcohol against the worsening autumnal weather. The illusion of normality returning had relaxed Irakli, who laughed unselfconsciously at Shota's goofing and bickered with Ivan about the referee's decisions in the game they'd watched.

Victor pressed him for more information about the break-up, and Ivan joked that Victor had always had his eye on Zinaida. Irakli shook Victor by the scruff of his jacket and asked him why he cared, but he sighed and blew cigarette smoke up at the night sky and admitted, "It was kind of messy, actually."

The lure of sharing something with a sympathetic crowd overcame him, assisted by the sense of invincibility the warming brandy had left in its wake. As soon as he mentioned driving up to the holiday homes in the mountains, his friends knew what it meant: he let the assumption stand that he and Zinaida had had sex before the break-up and accepted his friends' conditional, crude sympathy with only a dim sense of guilt.

"Leave her something to remember you by..."

"Well, what's the point in marrying used goods anyway?"

"You've got your priorities!"

They went to a bar where Victor's brother worked, and in the noise and the humid, smoky air, it was easy to lose all sense of discretion. Ivan ran into Tekle and her boyfriend, Tekle contradicted Ivan's version of Irakli and Zinaida's breakup - complete with texts from Zinaida - and Ivan relayed his own take on it back to Shota, Victor and Irakli.

"Tekle says Zinaida told her you couldn't do it, man!"

In a way, it felt good to have an excuse to erupt angrily. Irakli surged at Ivan, fuelled by the righteous knowledge that someone else was twisting the truth as much as he had been.

Shota held Irakli back, though his own face was an impish mask of amusement. Victor hovered by Ivan's shoulder, hoping he wouldn't have to intervene, hungry for the performance. Their group became a small tornado of impotent shoving and yelling that earned them eyerolls from those around and a word of warning from Victor's brother behind the bar.

It was Shota who placed his cold hands on the back of both Irakli and Ivan's necks and announced, "You know what? Let's go to the club, see if there are any adventurous tourists. You both need to get laid."

They finished their drinks and made up over shots, then they went on to the nightclub they'd been going to since they were old enough to talk their way past the doorman. Under flashing lights and low clouds of smoke and steam, they joined the packed crowds: drinking lurid coloured liquids, shouting lyrics no one could hear, bodies touching the anonymous bodies of other dancers.

It was a relief for Irakli, to do something as thoughtless, as normal, as completely defensible and harmless as drinking in an old haunt and swaying to pop songs he shamelessly delighted in. Touch was easy when there was a beat and everyone was drunk - Irakli didn’t mind whether he bumped against the men or the women dancing close by.

Then he caught himself enjoying the shape of one guy's limbs in particular: the physicality of his toned arms was illuminated beneath stark light and shadow, the stranger's tattoos followed the contours of muscle and sinew. Irakli's admiring gaze lingered until he felt a familiar clench of desire that made him bite the inside of his mouth and look down at his drink. Caught off-guard by the strength of the feeling, he downed his beer and gestured to his friends that he was going to the bar.

Irakli leaned against an empty part of the counter and felt lightheaded from the alcohol and the heat. He ran his fingers over his face and hair, leant forwards and tried to still his whirling thoughts. They evaded him, circling like the lights above him. The air was insubstantial, a heady mix of sweat and smoke and the sour, dehydrating tang of dry ice. Weirdly, the only thought he could grasp hold of - as he tasted the layers of fermented sugar in his mouth and blinked at the weightlessness of his limbs - was that he had somehow betrayed Merab by looking at another guy like that.

Merab.

The thought of him warmed Irakli's skin. His array of smiles, from the easy laughter they shared when dancing together to the anticipatory smirk wrapped around a cigarette, the only part of Merab's expression that Irakli had been able to see beneath the fleece of the wonky papakha he wore. Irakli thought miserably of Merab's intoxicating, haughty defensiveness and his sudden serious silences; his hungry kisses and restless, reckless hands.

Finally, Irakli raised his head from his own palms and called the bartender over. In a voice that surprised him with its steadiness, he ordered another beer and a chaser.

"Make it a double," he said, clinging to the bar as the room dipped and spun around him. When you realised how drunk you were - and that it was _this_ drunk - the only thing for it was to keep going, or you'd fall asleep on your feet right there if you didn't throw up on your own shoes first.

There was a small outside area where he took his beer and his cigarettes and sat heavily on a chair in the cold night. Shota and Victor found him, and he was relieved to have their company - they would distract him from the memories of Merab again - and he put on a show of cheering up for them. Shota responded to this goodwill by fetching a tray of vodka shots, which they worked through one by one, joking about Ivan's dancing and whether he had a chance with any of the tourists he'd found.

"They're Russian, they're too smart to go for that kind of shit..." said Shota with a dismissive wave of his hand.

"You didn't spot anyone suitable for a rebound?" Victor eyed Irakli with a smirk.

Irakli shook his head, smiling as he blew a cloud of cigarette smoke out.

"Still pining for the girl in Tbilisi..." Shota tutted, but he sang a couple of lines of a folk song and mimed playing an instrument with it, his eyes melancholy even as he fought to keep the grin from his lips.

Irakli laughed and shrugged. He wanted to tell someone how amazing Merab was. To drag his memories out of the darkness and shine a new light on them, sharing some of his awe. "You don't know them," he chuckled leadingly.

"So tell us!" Shota shoved Irakli's arm impatiently with the heel of his hand. Victor leant forwards and pushed one of the remaining shot glasses across the table to Irakli.

"They're a dancer too," Irakli admitted.

Shota slapped the table edge - "I _knew_ it!"

"Always in trouble with the teacher for not doing it right - too playful, too soft..."

Shota and Victor each assumed he had meant 'too hard' - they were not as drunk as Irakli was, but they were drunk enough to accommodate such mix-ups in a good-natured manner.

"But, I don't know..." Irakli's laugh turned self-conscious. He felt the heat in his cheeks as he looked down at the ashtray and pushed it about the damp surface of the table with his fingertips extended. "That was what was good. What was them. When they danced... There was this night where they danced to the radio after a party. There's this tattoo just above the elastic of their pants, it's like...an invitation, you know? When you just have to know where it goes... "

"They were dancing in their underwear for you?" Victor was leaning forwards, his expression neutral, but his body language eager for more information.

"Yeah, just them and a, you know the old warrior hats, a papakha they picked up from somewhere in this guy's house."

Shota laughed and clapped his hands. Victor whistled.

"Topless dancer, just for you..."

Irakli stared blankly at them both, for a moment so caught up in the happy memory that he forgot why there should be any fuss about Merab being topless.

After a moment he laughed too and downed the shot of vodka in front of him. "Oh, yeah, no, and a bra," he added belatedly.

Shota gave him a strange look - one that he missed entirely - while Victor knocked back his own drink.

Feeling hopelessly warm in his body as his surroundings spun around him, Irakli leaned his head back on the chair and groaned. He let his chin loll against his shoulder and might have gone straight to sleep, only Victor was talking again. "Were they your partner at the ensemble?"

His eyes mostly closed, Irakli laughed and shook his head. "Just once..." He tried to blink and found his eyelids heavy.

"What did you dance? The kartuli?" Viktor filled in cheerily.

Irakli's smile widened. He was on the precipice of dreams, his mind full of orange light and the memory of the way Merab tasted and smelled. He made a derisive sound. "The kintouri!"

Viktor turned wonderingly to Shota, who froze as he reached for a glass of vodka.

"What?" Viktor asked, followed by a nervous, trilling giggle.

Irakli had settled in his chair, his arms folded and chin drooping towards the collar of his jacket.

Viktor looked again to Shota for confirmation of what he'd just heard, but Shota's eyes were screwed shut as he necked his drink. Viktor got up slowly and moved round the table like an animal stalking its prey, though his expression was a blend of disbelief and anticipation. He gave Irakli's shoulder a shake, and produced little more than a groan of complaint.

"What did you say their name was, Iko?"

Shota sat back, a cigarette clamped between his lips, his scowl deepening. "Leave him to sleep, he's incoherent."

Viktor's grin was frozen on his features. He looked straight at Shota and gave Irakli another shake, his fist bunched around a handful of Irakli's jacket. "Who did you dance kintouri with?"

Irakli didn't open his eyes. He pawed half-heartedly at Viktor's hand and tried to shove it off, then muttered something indistinct.

"Merab?" Viktor asked.

Shota, who had moved over to intervene in case Viktor got any rougher with his catatonic plaything, tutted. "He said 'mmm' because he's drunk as a donkey. It might have been anything: Mary, Maia..."

Viktor's eyes were glittering with amusement. "Why are you defending him? Were you hoping to be his rebound boy?"

It was enough to make Shota stop and shove his hands in his pockets with a look of disgust. "Fuck off!"

"I know what I heard, it was pretty fucking clear after all the rest of it. Doesn't it make sense now, about why he wouldn't tell us about _his girl,_ why he didn't just marry her instead of Zinaida?" Viktor's voice rose triumphantly and summoned Ivan over from the door to the club, where he had lingered to light his cigarette and check his messages somewhere he could get better signal.

"No it doesn't make sense, not if you know Irakli," Shota scoffed.

"What's he done now?" Ivan asked, joining them to stand above the slumped figure in the chair.

Viktor had no interest in treading lightly: he was drunk and fired up, too excited not to make use of the energising new gossip he had discovered. "Iko was telling us about his Tbilisi girl."

"Yeah?"

"They're a boy."


	26. Chapter 26

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are some specific content warnings for a few of these chapters in the notes at the end of Chapter 22.

Try as they might, they could not rouse him enough to get confirmation for Ivan. Instead, Viktor eventually acceded to Shota's insistence that they bundle him back to his mother's place and leave it until later to find out more.

They made enough noise to wake the dead, stumbling over each other's feet as they swayed and tripped up the stairs to Elizabeth's apartment. Viktor and Shota supported Irakli while Ivan followed behind, silent and brooding, unwilling to even touch Irakli as he contemplated Viktor's claims.

But Shota seemed to be in denial, and they relied on Shota's place to watch the football.

Elizabeth opened the door before they got there, with a mother's sense that the commotion must have been the result of her own son's misadventures. She made a sound of dismay and stepped over the threshold, her hair wild and dressing gown pulled tight around her body.

"What has happened?" she looked for blood or any sign of injury, she saw the worry on Shota's face before he hefted Irakli's weight again and put on a smile for her.

"He's just drunk, Mrs Elizabeth," Shota said, louder than he intended.

She reached for him, as though she could scoop him into her arms like a child, and Shota laughed. "Let us help, we'll get him to his room."

"Just take him to the couch..."

She shook her head and bit her nails and watched Viktor and Shota struggle, one laughing, one swearing, Irakli between them barely able to plant his own feet beneath him. They knocked icons and photos askew on the walls as they went, while Ivan waited in the stairwell with her, a hostile expression on his face.

"What happened?" Elizabeth asked again.

Ivan folded his arms and shrugged. "Upset about the break-up, I guess."

"What break-up?"

"With Zinaida," he said bluntly. "Or with this... _guy_ in Tbilisi, who knows."

"What do you mean?" Elizabeth's voice had grown fainter. She was very aware of the way Ivan's words echoed brashly around the stairwell, and she glanced up and around at her neighbours’ doors.

"Mrs Elizabeth, he didn't tell you?" Ivan's concern might have been genuine - Elizabeth missed the twang of sarcasm in his drunken slur. "He broke up with Zinaida. I thought you must have known!"

"No, I. I didn't." Elizabeth swept her hand over her face. "He broke up with her? What did you say?"

Ivan shook his head and fidgeted, peering into the apartment and letting out an impatient sound. "What? Oh, maybe she broke up with him. They had a fight I think. But he's been weird since he got back, you know that."

Shota and Viktor were returning, and Shota held Viktor's elbow as he muttered something in his ear. "He's on the couch, Mrs Elizabeth." Shota said with a slight bow and a smile lacking somewhat in heart. "We're sorry to have woken you so late."

Elizabeth nodded, and not one of them noted her sudden pallor. Elizabeth remained on the threshold of her apartment, wringing her hands as the three boys left. They had barely reached the floor below hers when their voices rose up again, swelling and echoing around the stairwell.

"I can't believe we did that. Should have left him at the club."

"Viktor, you're making too much out of it."

"No, you heard what he said as well: he's a faggot!"

"Why are you so determined that he is?"

"Why are you so determined that he isn't?"

"Akh, the both of you are obsessed - he's been crap company recently anyway. Might as well have been married for all the fun he's been."

"That's just what I'm saying..."

Elizabeth managed to close the apartment door behind her before a single, hiccupping sob escaped her lips.

She leant on the wall and heard the boys continue to laugh and shout until they had left the building. Once they were outside, the substance of their words faded, and the thoughts in Elizabeth's mind blurred like the noises on the street as she contemplated one worry after another on a night of already disturbed sleep.

The neighbours would lose sleep too - the neighbours would hear what the boys said.

The wedding was off - and Irakli had told his friends but not her.

What did Ivan mean, talking about a guy in Tbilisi? She had heard them clearly enough. But how could it be true? And oh - the neighbours would hear that, also.

Forcing aside all these troubling thoughts, Elizabeth walked blindly down the corridor, straightening wall hangings as she went. She took a deep breath and stood over the couch.

It had been knocked askew as the weight of three bodies had leaned against it. Irakli's friends had not made much of an effort to make him comfortable. He lay spread-eagled, face-down on the rough cushions, all clothing still on, the folded pile of bedsheets trapped beneath his heavy, motionless form.

Elizabeth sighed and began to undo his shoelaces, pulling each damp sneaker off and placing them to dry by the kitchen window, where the morning light was warmest.

She sat on the edge of the couch and moved his arms until he could be rolled, with difficulty, onto his side. She undid his jacket and, not too gently, pulled one arm free of a leather sleeve before moving him again to free the other one. Then Elizabeth sat there for a time, breathing heavily from her efforts, with his jacket cold and sticky in her arms, cradled against her warm, soft dressing gown.

He seemed content in sleep: his expression was soft, like an infant's, and he drew his arms in close to his body like he was protecting something. Elizabeth could smell the vodka and other alcohol past the layer of cigarette smoke and it was enough to mar the perfect image of her son at peace.

She hesitated to reach out and stroke his cheek like she might have done before. He seemed so distant, a stranger in her house, not the grown-up young man who stood with her at the hospital and talked politely, full of charm for her friends at church or the shops.

She wanted so badly to believe that his friends were liars - perhaps they had shared an argument that night, and Irakli was not able to defend himself from their slander now. But the longer she watched him sleep and could not bring herself to touch him, the more certain she became: if what they said about Zinaida was true, then they believed the other to be true. If they believed it of _her son_ \- then they would have the whole town believing it too. By then, it might as well be true.

She returned to her room not to sleep, but to pray.


	27. Chapter 27

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are some specific content warnings for a few of these chapters in the notes at the end of Chapter 22.

Vano's morning care could not wait for Irakli's hangover to pass. Elizabeth was striding with purpose between the kitchen and the bedroom and the light howled mercilessly through the windows. The sound of the respirator, the smell of the trash as she took it out - with the sweet-sharp tang of disinfectant and soap following fast behind it - brought Irakli to consciousness despite his reluctance to acknowledge it.

He lay stewing in a mist of cigarette smoke and stale booze - parts of his body felt overheated, parts were too cold. It seemed like the couch was rocking gently beneath him, and as his mother passed between the windows and the couch it was like being under the harsh glare of a strobe light on the dance floor. Irakli moved his arms to cover his face and regretted it immediately: the couch seemed to lurch beneath him, his stomach flipped threateningly and he tasted acid in the back of his throat.

He made certain not to attempt movement again, but screwed his eyes shut and imagined his body was as heavy as it could be, almost a part of the couch. Every sound Elizabeth made - cupboard doors closing, the kettle boiling, a teaspoon hitting the side of a mug - seemed to gather in strength like a wave before hitting him, accompanied by a piercing pain in his head. The sound of knocking on the thin apartment door made him groan and bury his face deeper in the upholstery.

Elizabeth went to answer it - he heard every one of her steps, the door handle clicking as she turned it, the scrape of its lower edge along the rug as she pulled the door open. It was a neighbour - Irakli didn't know which one - and there was a combination of concern and intense curiosity in their voice.

"Is everything alright, Mrs Elizabeth?"

His mother's replies were muffled and low, too quiet to hear.

"I heard a commotion in the night. I thought it must have been the paramedics here for your husband, but...” … "Ahh, the boy must be under such pressure though, Mrs Elizabeth.” … "Though it can't be true, can it?” … "I see, I see, of course. Let me know if I can do anything to help you."

The door closed and his mother sighed.

It took a little while for Irakli to form any connection between the neighbour's concern and his hangover. He pressed his cheek against the rough weave of the cushions and tried to ignore the sense of unease that dripped steadily against his empty thoughts. Was there something he was meant to be doing that morning? Something he'd promised someone?

He remembered the break-up.

Shame blossomed, warming his body from his fingertips to his toes as his memories jumped forwards to the conversations with his friends: how he'd let them believe what they wanted to about what had happened in the back of the car. Then he remembered arguing about it with Ivan - he'd said some things about Tekle that made him clench his teeth in disgust at himself.

In among it all, he couldn't understand why there seemed to be a glowing pocket of happiness in his sense of the previous night. There was something he wanted to hold on to, some feeling of relief and excitement - the kind of buzz you got from telling your friends some really good news, or sharing an enthusiasm with them. Irakli prodded at the thought with his aching mind, but it was too tiny a thing when considered alongside all of the other drunken machismo and swaggering arrogance.

Really, there was nothing worth dragging himself into consciousness for - he'd sleep some more, and maybe later in the weekend last night's misadventures would have resized themselves into something proportionately absurd and unimportant. He'd worry about the consequences of the break-up later. It would be a good idea to get in touch with Zinaida, he thought, forgetting the moment when he'd stepped out of the car and into the rain. He could check with her about his job. He'd worked well for Giorgi - there was no reason he should be laid off now just because one relationship had ended, right? And if he still had the job, he was sure he could find a way of explaining things to his mother. Just...not for a while. He needed to recover first.

He heard Elizabeth settle in the other chair, over near the empty TV table. He was facing away from her and as far as he knew, she thought he was asleep. He didn't remember coming back to the flat, but he'd got himself mostly undressed and made it to the couch. He hadn't stumbled out of habit into his old bedroom - so he couldn't have disturbed her that much, he thought. There seemed to be no reason to make a connection between the neighbour's visit and his own state - he'd had plenty of practice sneaking home late and he knew how to do so without a fuss.

Irakli felt like he was bobbing on the surface of sleep, never quite managing to submerge himself, but never really letting himself rise to full consciousness. He nuzzled his face into the upholstery and knotted his fingers in the sheet. He thought of the last time he had held onto someone like that and he tried to ignore the hangover looming at the edge of his awareness.

He wasn't sure he'd heard correctly at first, but he held his breath and listened to the sounds in the little flat. As rhythmic and soft as the noise made by the respirator in the other room, he heard the sobs his mother tried to stifle. He opened his eyes and hoped that she would stop of her own accord - he was too tired, too hungover, probably still too drunk to figure out what needed to be done. He didn't feel able to gather himself for her, to gently figure out where to direct his sympathy and reassurance at that moment. He just wanted the rest of the morning off - he'd be there for her again just as soon as he could.

Her sniffles continued though, and Irakli made himself turn. His head swam and he closed his eyes against the uneven blotches of light and dark that speckled his vision. His stomach protested and he swallowed hard against the taste of bile and stale vodka and smoke.

"Mum? Are you ok?" he croaked. "Is Dad ok?"

She was silent for a moment and he cracked his eyes open again. There were two mugs of tea on the table between them, but neither had been touched. Elizabeth looked startled, as though she really had thought he'd been asleep, and she concealed her red nose behind a crumpled handkerchief.

Irakli forced himself to sit up. He rubbed his face and the smell of smoke on his hands made him grimace. "What's happened, Mum?"

Elizabeth sniffed, and then she spoke without preamble. "Tell me, is it true that you've broken up with Zinaida?"

Irakli reeled. He felt too stupid to speak, and he blinked gormlessly at her. He sighed and covered his mouth with his fingers and then shuddered at the feeling of the alcohol resettling inside him. If he'd felt like he'd been at sea before, now he felt like the sea was inside him, roiling and tumbling, building to a storm.

He barely heard his own voice when he finally muttered: "Yeah. That's true."

Elizabeth was too worked up to be gentle with him. Her voice cut into him like broken glass, shrill and sharp. "When did it happen? Why didn't you tell me?"

Irakli plunged his face into his palms again, gritting his teeth against the smell of last night. He didn't want to look at her; her expression was pained and fearful. "It was just yesterday, Mum. I was going to tell you..."

"Why? I don't understand you. Why?"

He sat still. He tried to think of something he could say that his mother might understand - that would appeal to her desire to see him happy, and to protect Zinaida from hurt or dishonour. One of the last proper conversations he'd had with his father came back to him and he shrugged and met her eyes. "We weren't in love, Mum. It wouldn't have been any good."

Elizabeth's fists clenched on her knees. She paled and Irakli was surprised by the fierce line of her mouth. "Love! What do you need that for to get married? You learn that, like you learn everything else in marriage. Who is in love when they get married?"

The feeling behind her outburst astonished him. Irakli blinked and moved his shoulders again - it was a defensive habit. "Wha - well, I thought...Dad said..."

It made her cry again: heavy, clear tears that she barely bothered trying to mop up with the ruined handkerchief. But the steeliness remained in her voice when she gathered herself together. "He always said that. For me, it was different. I wanted to leave Tbilisi and get as far away as possible - marrying your father was what let me do that. I liked him - but I only grew to _love_ him later on."

Irakli felt lightheaded. He picked up his cold tea and tried to drink it, but the smell made his mouth flood with saliva and his guts clench. Hastily, he put it down and waited for the wave of nausea to subside.

He thought of the hope and the hunger in his father's eyes when Irakli read him the adventures and romances from books, and when Irakli shared minute hints of the truth about his time in Tbilisi. He felt wrecked on Vano's behalf, as though from the next room, from deep in unconsciousness, Vano might hear what Elizabeth said. As though it might have been a heartbreaking revelation after thirty years of marriage to discover that, initially, his wife had not been that much of a romantic, though her devotion could not be doubted now.

"Will you go and make up with her? Try it, son. You will see. It gets easier once you are married." Elizabeth leant forwards to squeeze his knee, but the gesture was too hard to reassure. It was filled with desperation, as though, had she been able to, she would have dragged him to his feet and marched him to Zinaida's family that very moment.

"I don't think I can." He shook his head slowly and stared at the table. "It wasn't. We didn't. That is... I don't want to..." There was no way of explaining _that_ to his mother. He sighed helplessly.

With the same ruthlessness - an unwieldy blade that Elizabeth did not use often, and so swung with too much force - his mother asked, "Is it because you are in love with a - with a man?"

He looked up quickly and regretted the movement. His head sang with pain and his vision dimmed. "What? No..."

Irakli stared at his mother and she stared back, and, with growing horror, he recalled what he had thought had been the one happy moment of the previous night: when he had painted a picture of Merab for his friends, as carefully as he could, but - perhaps not carefully enough. Irakli also remembered admiring the other guy's arms in the club. What if he had given himself away, in that moment's glance across the dance floor?

He tried to remember getting back to the flat, but it was still a blank spot. Had he come back home full of stories about Merab, heedless of who would hear him?

He felt like he'd been slit from navel to throat by shame, gutted like a fish with all of his secrets exposed before his mother's knowing glare. His pulse quickened and he could hear it behind his temples. His skin had turned hot, and he felt clammy and wretched.

Elizabeth opened her mouth to respond, and doubt might have entered her expression but Irakli did not see it. He had reached a tipping point and his body shook - he stood up with a muttered excuse and walked with quick, short steps to the bathroom, swinging the door shut carelessly behind him before he dropped to his knees in front of the toilet bowl.

He hadn't eaten much the previous night - but he had certainly drunk plenty. His throat burned and his sides ached and his body insisted again and again that there was yet more poison to be expelled. With sweat forming at his hairline, Irakli gripped the edge of the bowl until his arms shivered and his shoulders felt stiff. He wiped his mouth with the back of his wrist and slumped against the wall.

Slowly, deliberately, like he was digging out a splinter or peeling off a plaster, Irakli drew his phone out of his pocket and unlocked the screen.

There was an absurd number of messages. It had begun at some stupid time of the morning and the most recent ones were only a few minutes old.

He gagged over the bowl again at the sight of the first few:

_Faggot._

_Go back to your boyfriend in Tbilisi, you're not welcome here._

_That girl is better off without you - throw yourself in the sea._

People he hadn't heard from in years had taken the time to get in touch - his thumb moving steadily and deliberately, Irakli punched delete on those messages until he came to some from Shota.

_Bet you're even more hungover than I am today._

_So. You might have said some stuff last night and now Viktor is telling everyone as if it's a fact. Now would be a good time to spill the actual beans on your Tbilisi girlfriend - the scandalous affair with the married woman/politician's daughter whose honour you've been protecting._

_Make it up if you have to, man - it doesn't look good given the way people are talking about your break-up now, too._

_By the way: I don't care what you did, live and let live, whatever. But you know that's not how it is with most people, Iro. It's not pretty._

Irakli groaned and let the phone drop to his lap. The battery was almost dead, and he was in no fit state to spin a yarn about some impossible girlfriend.

Moreover, he hadn't had a chance to lock the door, and now Elizabeth pushed it open cautiously and looked down at him, her hands clasped and a prayer on her lips.

"I'll be ok, Mum..." He attempted a smile.

She pressed the knuckles of her knitted hands to her lips and her eyes welled up again. "It's true? It's true, isn't it?"

He closed his eyes and shook his head, but didn’t have the energy to deny it further.

Elizabeth settled herself on the edge of the bathtub. "I wish you'd tell me the truth."

"No, you really don't." He tried to laugh ruefully, but it made him dry heave again, and he gasped and clutched his sides, his arms wrapped defensively around his body.

His mother was muttering about the things she should have seen, should have known, should have done. Not enough male role models, too many feminine jobs, not attending church...the reasons kept coming, but all Irakli knew was that it didn't matter if he knew how to slice vegetables or if his father had been well enough to come to his dance recitals. He would have thought that Merab was beautiful either way.

Irakli pressed his face to his hands, the heels of his palms hard against his eyes, as if he could push the feeling that he was about to cry back inside. He was so dehydrated anyway, and it would only be more fuel on the fire of his mother's panic.

"Mum, stop, please stop," he said thickly as she continued to fret about the corruption in Tbilisi, and furiously derided it as a city full of predators and Europhiles.

Elizabeth looked at him with a strange expression. It hurt Irakli to see it: it was like she was seeing him anew, meeting him for the first time, and she didn’t like what she saw. It made her look unfamiliar to him in turn, saddened and disgusted like he’d never seen her before.

"I came back here for you and Dad. I'm still here; I'm not going anywhere. I'm just not going to marry Zinaida."

"We need to get you help," Elizabeth said, and her voice wavered before she brought it under control.

"I don't need help." He couldn't keep the exasperation from his voice, and it made his head throb.

"Then why won't you marry Zinaida?"

"I don't want to!"

"But don't you see? That doesn't make any sense."

Irakli looked up at his mother's uncomprehending face. _Shit_ , he thought. Why hadn't he just gone through with it? Having sex wasn't a bad way to go about lying to someone - Zinaida would have been happy, he'd have come home afterwards and listened to the Friday night football as normal, he'd still be relaxing on the couch now, or smoking out of a window in a break in the rain, all his troubles safely contained. A fleeting, panicked thought went through his mind: he could turn up at her flat now, whisk her away to...somewhere. Make it up to her. Show her it had just been a passing reluctance, that it hadn't meant anything.

He held a clenched fist to his mouth and dug his teeth into skin, but it wasn't enough to stop the tears this time. His face felt hot and his chest hurt like his sides had after throwing up.

It must have been a pathetic enough picture that it finally broke through his mother's attempts to distance herself. Elizabeth sobbed too and came to her knees beside him. She wrapped her arms about him and rocked him and shushed him.

She still didn't understand, but Irakli's sporadic, hiccupping breaths didn't let him protest as she insisted, "We'll get you help. We'll talk to the priest. We can sort this out."


	28. Chapter 28

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please forgive me (in a secular sense) for any errors regarding services in an Orthodox church.

Irakli felt like the fight had gone out of him. He leaned against the wall at the back of the church and listened to the liturgy. The little building was packed with congregants and the air was thick with the smell of wet wool and incense.

He had come because his mother had begged, and he could never say no when she did, not any more. All the defiance he'd shown in his teenage years seemed to have relied on the support - explicit or implicit - of his father, and now it felt like gross cruelty to deny her when she wept and predicted the worst for him and for his soul. Besides - what else would he be doing with his evening? Nursing his hangover and avoiding looking at his phone?

Irakli found himself huddling close to the alcove where the candles were kept. He was cold with exhaustion, wrapped in his leather jacket - it was clean, no longer sticky with beer - but wishing he'd worn his father's old flannel work coat. The heat from the little shrine was palpable. He gazed into the candles' plucky little flames, watching them stretch and shimmer coyly at a shift in the air. He thought of the way Merab's body had looked under orange light at the vineyard: lithe and unabashed and dangerous.

He wanted to touch the flames, to see what their texture was, to extinguish the cold in his body with their refreshing, replenishing heat.

Each time the crowd around him swelled with breath and uttered, "Lord, have mercy!" Irakli shivered, his lips moving automatically though no sound came out, his eyes blank as he stared down at the candles.

He was flanked by his mother and her friends. He'd avoided talking to anyone before the service, and although he reckoned a few of the bravely anonymous texts he'd received had been sent by old school friends, colleagues and acquaintances who were in attendance, none of them acknowledged him in person.

He hadn't replied to Shota - he hadn't known what to say.

_Thanks, I guess?_

The song of the congregation filled the high ceilings and wound around every pillar and into every corner of the building. People approached one of the clerics throughout the service, bending their heads to murmur their confession over the Gospels. Irakli felt the women around him tighten their formation to guide him forwards - he looked down at their colourful headscarves and gritted his teeth at the strength of his mother's grip on his wrist, ensuring that he did not fall back or try to push against their subtle pressure.

Confession was something he might do once or twice a year, at special services, or when his father was well enough to attend church with them. He'd mutter the things he supposed the priest expected to hear - worries about money, girls, family - he'd nod at the advice he was given, and he'd move away and think no more of it until he was next compelled to go. But this time, as his mother pushed him forwards, he knew that the priest expected to hear something quite different - Elizabeth had made certain of that before the service began.

Irakli felt like he was watching himself from a distance as he stepped up to the lectern and placed his fingers on the open book. The priest was chanting a psalm and Irakli's heart started to beat fast. He glanced up at the dark eyes of the other man and then settled his gaze on the icon.

The priest reminded him to be honest and not to omit a single detail.

Irakli blinked at the smell of incense, which hung thick in the air at this end of the building. "I've hurt the people I care about," he muttered.

The priest leaned closer. "You will have to speak up, boy; the congregation is in full throat tonight."

He tensed, and snapped back, "I thought my confession was for the Lord?"

"And I am here to guide your words to Him, and to offer you advice, to tell you how you may strive to balance your sins. And while the Lord may hear your heart without assistance, I need you to speak up a little." Behind his beard, the priest smiled - it was warm, as generous as it could be.

Irakli disregarded it and stared instead into the flat brown surface of the icon's eyes. The figures had always looked cramped and uncomfortable to him, their heads twisted awkwardly, bowed to fit the golden frame that encased them. He felt the same discomfort as he held his fingers and thumb to the page in front of him and kept his own head lowered before the priest.

His pulse was still racing with defensiveness. He could not see how this man wanted to help him - he wanted to prise Irakli's memories from him, encourage him towards regretting, forgetting...

Irakli murmured the usual platitudes about his parents, and threw in some genuine guilt to appease the hungry glint he imagined in the priest's eye. "I've been selfish, I've hurt my mother by thinking of myself."

"How have you been selfish, boy? In what way did you put your desires before the needs of your mother?"

"She wanted me to marry and I did not."

"Is that truly all?"

"Is it a sin to marry someone you don't love, father?"

That gave the priest pause for thought. "No," he answered shortly. "But to enter into marriage with a lie in your heart..."

"So - I didn't want to do that, but now my mother is upset."

"Well, my boy, I cannot say what you might do to show your repentance if you do not give me the whole truth."

There was a complacency, a smugness in the older man's voice that made Irakli's hackles rise. Perhaps he had only felt so hopeless earlier because of the hangover, the weariness, the constant, exhausting presence of his mother's fears. Now, as he understood he was being talked down to, he remembered himself, and clung ferociously to the importance of his own experience. This person was so confident that he could interpret Irakli's own choices better than he could himself, that he knew best what would make Irakli happy, what would bring satisfaction to his life.

Irakli worked his jaw and imagined telling him the truth: defiant and unrepentant, and at last able to speak the words out loud that had shadowed him since he had come to terms with his pain on the bus from Tbilisi back to Batumi. What could the priest do? According to the sacrament of confession the priest was not allowed to tell anyone else what Irakli said to him. Irakli would not have to lie to his mother afterwards; he could tell her in all honesty that he had confessed and it was behind him. The priest could suggest whatever he wanted, but Irakli did not anticipate returning to church afterwards so that his progress could be monitored. He had agreed to do this one thing to keep his mother happy - he could make this compromise for her. He would feel less guilty denying her other requests if he could tell her honestly that he had done this.

Irakli shifted to meet the priest's eyes. Quietly, sharply, he hissed his response. It could not, he realised, have sounded less like penitence had he tried.

"Father, I had...thoughts about another man. I acted on them. I did so again. And I would do it again. I came home to care for my parents, and I don't want to resent them for it. But, I…" His words stuck on a sudden spur of emotion, as he rushed to finish saying what he had not been able to admit even to himself before then, "I miss him. All the time."

The priest blinked, and Irakli noted with some satisfaction that he failed to control the blush of colour creeping up his neck, behind his straggling black beard. "It is more serious than I had realised," the priest said at last. "You say that you feel no regret, boy?"

Irakli shook his head minutely. "No." He felt lightheaded from the smell of incense, and he could hear his own pulse thunder in his aching temples. His shoulders had squared, though, and he saw the discomfort he had felt earlier transfer itself to the priest's hunched posture.

"This is a very grave act of sin you have confessed to."

In the aftermath of the admission, Irakli could barely concentrate on the priest's words. Adrenaline coursed through him; the sound of the congregation and the clerics singing actually felt like a crowd cheering him on. Irakli held the priest's gaze, though the smoky, scented air dried his eyes and made him want to cough. He remained silent as his devotion to his mother was weighed against the wounds of his soul - prayer was recommended, repentance was advised, the need to make amends with his fiancée was made exceptionally clear.

"It is not for me to deny the Lord's absolution," the priest said in a grave voice. "But you cannot be free of this sickness without first repenting. Why did you come here, if you do not repent of this sin?"

Irakli thought fleetingly of the vitriol filling his message inbox. He held a vain hope that the gossip that had spread so quickly against him might be turned away or neutralised if he appeared to perform the other gestures the community required of him - but then again, it might simply confirm people's suspicions that he had something to seek absolution for.

He shrugged - probably with enough feeling that the movement would be visible to the congregation behind him. "For my mother."

"So you would lie to her again, and say that you came to confess with repentance in your heart, when you would commit this sin again, given the opportunity?"

Irakli felt fury warm him - to think that his attempts to look out for his mother would be used against his memories of Merab - to be asked to choose loyalty to one or the other. Lie now to the priest, or lie later to his mother.

He swore with feeling - words that made the priest draw back and blink in surprise - and with a suddenness he could not have rehearsed in his mind, Irakli pushed himself away from the base of the lectern. "Keep your forgiveness," he hissed, and shouldered his way back into the congregation, passing people who had not yet realised or noticed what had happened, what had not happened.

Of course he would not leave without his mother, and she would not leave before the service was over.

He went out into the fresh air of early night and breathed in the smell of the sea and the wet greenery of the city's parks and the mountains that loomed behind it. The illusion of freedom it provided made him ache, so he stood in the dark arch of the doorway, smoking though the taste still made him feel sick and dizzy from the previous night's overindulgence.

When the service ended he retreated from the entrance and moved around the corner to lean against the side of the building. He couldn’t hear the details of people's conversation as they drifted away, but he knew his mother would hang back to talk to her spiritual father about what had happened.

He tensed when a shadow stretched out on the ground by his feet as someone rounded the corner of the church.

"Oh, _shit_ , it's you!" Joni, the young family man Irakli had caught up with the last time he'd attended church, clutched his hand to his heart in - only partial - mockery of fear. He immediately glanced over his shoulder, guilty about swearing, guilty about the cigarettes he took out of his pocket. "Sorry - is this your hiding place?"

Irakli smiled wanly and let out a mirthless chuckle. "I think I'm all out of those."

Joni eyed him uneasily, but settled against the wall a safe distance away. "Oh. Yeah. I heard something, some rumours." He took a few quick, hungry puffs of his cigarette. "Yeah, I've, uh, I've actually got a cousin - went for a study abroad year in Germany - and she's. Well. She's got a German girlfriend now."

He turned to look at Joni, intrigued by this awkward demonstration of solidarity. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." Joni shrugged. "So, you know. It happens. You should have waited, gone abroad though, man. People here...my family say she's never coming back. That's - I, sorry, that's not helpful, is it? But it happens, doesn't it?"

Irakli sighed and leaned his head back against the brick. "It happens. Thanks, Joni," he said drily.

"Shh!" Joni stubbed his cigarette out quickly. "Shit. Shit. Keep it down, anyway, I said nothing." Without a farewell, he slunk back into the light and waved, presumably to his family as they emerged from the building, casting one wary glance back that warned Irakli to stay in the shadows and not to follow Joni too closely.

He finally returned to the entrance of the church when he heard his mother's voice - she spoke quickly, breathlessly.

"I'm sure it was a misunderstanding, please."

"Mrs Elizabeth, your care for your son does you credit, but I cannot say any more. He chose to leave without absolution."

They both looked up as he rounded the corner of the building. He felt like a child who had slipped away in the market, not intending to cause any trouble, but reluctant to reappear once he heard the panic he had caused.

"Let's go home, Mum."

She looked at him and then at the priest. The priest smiled down at her kindly, but his eyes were hard when he looked over at Irakli.

Irakli hung back and folded his arms. He didn’t like this situation, where they each pretended not to remember the words that had been spoken between them.

The priest asked him quietly about his time in Tbilisi - Elizabeth had been telling him that Irakli missed the city. Irakli shrugged and tried to catch his mother's eyes, but she lowered them as she crossed herself. She had never liked to think about the capital at the best of times - she had her own reasons for disliking it that extended back into a Soviet childhood she would not speak about.

The priest, meanwhile, expounded his own doubts about the city. Irakli couldn't say why, but the other man's words seemed like a coded threat - his allusions seemed grounded in some direct experience, as he repeatedly asserted the importance of family and warned Irakli against tolerance of foreign ideas and blasphemy. Ultimately, he praised Irakli for returning home, for thinking of his parents and showing them the love, honour and respect that they were due. "You have come back to her, and this should give your mother confidence."


	29. Chapter 29

He couldn't stand hearing her muffled sobs from the living room, so moved to the stairwell to smoke. Neighbours passed now and again with swiftly averted eyes or openly hostile glares. Old women crossed themselves and their husbands made themselves feel bold by muttering things like, "I didn't think she'd bring herself to kick you out!"

Irakli greeted them all with the same vague, hopeful smile at first, but soon settled on an expression of weary disinterest. His head was full of the things he'd heard his mother say, things he could not understand coming from the mouth of the woman who had raised him and cared with such devotion for him and his sick father. He couldn't make them match how he felt either, couldn't find the shame or the perversion or the betrayal he was supposed to have committed. His thoughts of Merab were untouchable, golden, existing a world away from the horror that met him at home.

As it got late, his phone pinged intermittently with messages again. Fewer people went out on Saturday night, but enough of them found it necessary to tell Irakli what they thought about him. He had always been someone who liked to be liked: he worked at it, he told stories to make himself the centre of attention, he laughed easily and loved to make others laugh. Apparently, this had fostered a deep resentment in some of the people he knew - he could not explain why else there was such vitriol in the messages he was receiving, such vindictiveness. Everyone wanted to see the popular guy knocked from his pedestal.

He turned his phone off before he lay down on the couch. He thought he'd never be able to sleep, but the hangover said otherwise - he didn't notice himself lose consciousness.

In the morning, Elizabeth did not bother to wake him. He heard her preparing to leave for mass and sat up groggily, feeling the chill of the morning air.

"Mum? Didn't you...I assumed..."

She glanced quickly at him as she tied her headscarf. "You cannot receive communion if you have not been absolved. Will you come and be absolved?"

He shook his head, and she sighed and left him alone with the sound of his father's respirator.

She had left him nothing to do for Vano - he lay on clean sheets, his cheeks freshly shaved, his expression serene. Irakli made himself tea and sat down by his father's bedside anyway and tried to read a book.

His attention didn't last long - what were his father's romances, but books about barriers to love? Barriers that either made Irakli wince or that made him shut the book with impatience. He finally switched his phone back on and blinked as it buzzed and flashed with more messages, more missed calls...

Shota was worrying. He deleted everything else that had come in, but noted the times of Shota's calls and texts. Zinaida had messaged Shota asking if what she'd heard was true and he'd panicked. Then Irakli hadn't replied or picked up and Shota had panicked again. Then Shota had panicked _to_ Zinaida and she'd started messaging Irakli as well.

_Are you ok?_

He stared at the words and tried to work out what the answer was. Manifestly, things were not ok - but he wasn't sure he felt any worse than he had done last week. There was a bittersweet, warming relief to knowing he didn't have to worry, constantly, about giving himself away. When he wasn't in the immediate vicinity of his mother's distress he could even tell himself things were better like this.

Irakli glanced at his father's still form guiltily. Who knew what Vano was aware of - probably nothing. But Irakli squeezed his cool hand, murmured - "Back soon, Dad" - and went into the living room to call Shota back.

Shota did not pick up immediately, but when he did his voice was hushed and full of feeling. "Iko? Are you there?"

"Hi, Shota, it's me..." Irakli dropped heavily to the couch and stared up at the ceiling.

Shota swore. He berated Irakli for ignoring his phone. Irakli let him talk himself into something resembling calm and laughed nervously - he'd never heard Shota take anything so seriously before. He wasn't sure if he should feel touched or unnerved.

Finally, Shota let out a long sigh that whistled down the crackling phone line. "So. You're gay now, is that it?"

Irakli laughed again, incredulous, uncomfortable hearing it said out loud like that.

"Jesus, it's not funny, Iko - you should hear the way Viktor's been talking."

"Ah, I've seen his messages," Irakli admitted. He let the silence stretch, rolling Shota's words round in his mind, seeing how they fit.

"What are you going to do?"

"Hm?" He pulled at a loose thread on the sheet he'd been sleeping on and shrugged as though Shota could see it. "What do you mean?"

Shota's exasperation let itself be felt in another stream of invective. "You can't tell me your mother is fine with this? I'm amazed she's not marched you over to Zinaida's by now to beg her dad's forgiveness."

"Yeah, she wanted to. We're not great right now, Shota." He still found himself surprised by his mother's anger. He hadn't expected it to be so unwavering. "But I'm not going anywhere. She'll understand that I don't have to be married to help her out." He had to believe she would, eventually, understand.

"Scandalous," said Shota drily. "That's it then? Let me ask, how can you be so certain? You'll never get married?"

"I didn't say that." Irakli rolled his eyes and leaned his head back against the couch. "I just don't want to think about it right now. It's just...it's a lot, Shota. It's all been a lot recently."

Something of Shota's usual levity had returned by the time he ended the silence between them: "I've never heard of fancying guys as a side effect of having a sick parent."

Irakli laughed - it made his eyes sting unexpectedly with feeling and he bit his lip.

Shota was cautious of asking anything he didn't want to hear the answer to - and Irakli did not want to tell him anything Shota wouldn't appreciate - but he was still Shota, and their friendship had survived enough to weather even this new dimension of awkwardness. It was easier to shift the conversation to their predictions for the week's football than to talk about what would happen next - but in the end, it was Shota who asked anyway.

"So, what about your job?"

"We're starting to redo the walls this week, I think. More training," Irakli said evasively.

Shota's beat of silence was eloquent. "Have you checked you do still have a job?"

He hadn't; he hadn't been told otherwise and he didn't like to draw attention to himself. He hoped that, perhaps, Nikoloz and his brother and Giorgi and all the guys on site had miraculously remained ignorant of Irakli's indiscreet Friday night drama.

"I can't face talking to her right now, Shota." Irakli dropped his head to his hand. "And I'm not messaging Nikoloz if I can't talk to her."

"It would be a hell of a conversation," Shota said with wry agreeableness. "'Mr Nikoloz, I'm very sorry I dumped your daughter because I realised I loved a _guy_ more than her. Please could I also keep my job? I mean it's not like I'm getting access to my in-laws' money now, is it?'"

Irakli groaned. "Shut up, Shota. And I don't love him. I'm not in love with anyone."

"Well you've made a right mess of your life for 'not love'," Shota fired back. After a pause, he added, quickly and quietly, "Sorry, man. I'll tell Zinaida you're ok and that you didn't want to talk about it now."

"Thanks, Shota. Give her my best. I didn't want it to work out like this."

"Let's wait till it does work out before getting ahead of ourselves, hm? And be careful tomorrow."

"I'll be fine, Shota. We all just want to get on with our lives, right?"


	30. Chapter 30

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are some specific content warnings for a few of these chapters in the notes at the end of Chapter 22.

How much of this was about proving to his mother that it would all be fine really?

How much of it was about proving the same to himself?

Irakli tried not to drag his feet - it was a cold morning and he didn't want to be the last one on site, who would be greeted by the quizzical stares of the other workmen as he entered the building. Whether they'd heard stories through the night-time gossip or from the congregation at church didn't much matter - it didn't take long for news like this to find its way around a small city. They would have heard something, he knew this despite his fanciful hopes.

The radio was already on, but there was only one other man there - Irakli tried to greet him as normally as possible, though he sidled into the room like he was expecting an ambush.

The other guy's response was a mirror image of Irakli's own awkwardness. He was chewing on a candy bar for breakfast and he backed against the wall too quickly for the gesture to be casual. He coughed on the sweet chocolate and flinched when Irakli moved forward with concern.

Irakli laughed it off nervously. "How was your weekend?"

The other worker nodded. "Yeah. Yeah. Watched the football. That's about it, really." He had made a point of not asking Irakli how his weekend had been, and now appeared to regret it.

Irakli shrugged and made some banal comments about the match he'd watched on Friday - the details were hazy - he'd been pretty drunk already, but he knew the teams and the players well enough to bluff the talking points.

They managed to fall into a stilted rhythm of conversation, and, as he leant against the flaking, stained plaster wall, Irakli began to hope that normalcy could return in time. So long as neither of them wanted to address it, it would be ok.

It seemed to him that he could relax more when the other men arrived - the worst texts he got, full of threats and violent wishes, seemed like the kind of empty posturing that might occur on a dark and drunken dancefloor. Easy to type and forget about, but harder to justify in the presence of others. The kind of posturing these men might indulge in, but only within a certain, uninhibited setting. He couldn’t imagine their bravado spilling over into a workplace, in bright, pragmatic daylight. He couldn’t imagine that enough strength of feeling would trouble these near strangers when they thought of what Irakli was accused of.

The workers stopped in the doorway and the situation hung in the balance. Irakli felt his adrenaline spike and his jaw tighten as the other men finished their cigarettes. One, pushing past the others, leant in to eject a bullet of spit at his feet.

Irakli raised his eyebrows and looked at the wet, white spatter, not at the faces of the other men.

Giorgi would be arriving soon to supervise the next stage of the job - surely they wouldn't risk their own employment by starting anything he could walk in on?

"We were just talking about the match," Irakli said. His voice sounded distant to him, steadier than he'd have expected. He swept his gaze from the stony expressions of the new arrivals to the guy he'd just been chatting with.

He had no expectation of what followed. He heard the slur on the other man's mouth a second before he felt the punch.

"Don't speak to me, faggot!"

It didn't send him to the ground, but Irakli felt its effects ringing through his body.

"Liar," said the man he had been chatting with moments ago.

The others were yet to decide whether to join in. His hand to his cheek, Irakli glanced at them, wondering whether an appeal would make things worse or better.

His assailant came at him again and Irakli grappled with him and yelled, trying to intimidate him into backing down. He heard fabric rip and took another blow to his middle that winded him and folded him over.

The other man pushed him down and once his knees struck the bare floor, the group made its choice: the air darkened as they closed in around him.

He curled in on himself and lay, astonished, beneath their blows. He couldn't think what else to do - all feeling and sense seemed to have abandoned him and been replaced by a dazed paralysis.

He didn't know how long it went on for, but as soon as they drew back - Giorgi's car had pulled up in the alley - Irakli rolled shakily onto his hands and knees. He took one look at the back of their legs and scrambled to his feet, running for the doorway with rubbery limbs. He was ashamed at the way he veered and flinched away from them as they turned with renewed jeers. He was ashamed of the way he ran, but he couldn't have stopped his legs even if he'd thought to try.

He clattered down the old wooden steps, ignoring the splinters on the bannister.

"Hey!" Giorgi's shout was like a shot in the morning air as Irakli bolted from the building.

Finger outstretched, accusatory, Giorgi strode from his car to intercept him. "What the hell are you doing here?"

Breathing heavily, Irakli finally noticed the taste of blood. He circled away from Giorgi, palms out. "This is my job. I need this job." He brushed the dust from the front of his jacket and touched his fingers to the heat swelling in his cheek and ear.

Giorgi shook his head incredulously. At the window above, the other men gathered to watch.

"There's no work for the likes of you here."

"Nikoloz said that?"

Giorgi snorted. " _I'm_ saying it."

All of his disinterest regarding his cousin Zinaida had been overwritten by a protectiveness that would not be reasoned with. He raised his fist in a threat and Irakli, who was beginning to feel the bruising in his face and ribs, gathered himself to run again.

He hated to give Giorgi the satisfaction of seeing him flee, but adrenaline denied him the option of staying behind and risking a second beating. He set off like he’d been sprung from a trap, and Giorgi gave up following him before the end of the road.

Irakli got as far as the park near the apartment block before he stopped to think about what would happen if he went inside looking like...he examined his clothes and his face and winced. The rush of instinct was wearing off and one side of his jaw throbbed angrily. The inside of his cheek had been cut and he sucked on the sharp taste of blood as he berated himself for not fighting back. He slumped on a bench and took out a cigarette, noticing miserably that the packet had been squashed and his father's old work coat had been torn. Worse still - he shifted awkwardly at the pain in his thigh - his phone had taken the brunt of someone's kick. He drew it from his pocket and grimaced at the shattered screen. It responded only intermittently to his attempts to scroll or press anything, and he swore feelingly, attracting the horror of a young woman pushing a pram through the park.

Irakli looked up apologetically. He worried that someone from his mother's building would spot him, so he tucked his collar up and wiped the blood from the corner of his mouth. He stretched his stiffening limbs out and smoked away the taste of iron as he walked back towards the seafront and port to begin his job search anew.

He spent a dissatisfying morning walking himself weary and an uncomfortable afternoon doing odd jobs at a boatyard he was certain was dealing with black market imports.

Deepening bruising combined with a reputation that preceded him had ruled Irakli out of everything else he asked about. Some people were polite enough to let him make his request before they told him they didn't need his help; others slammed doors in his face or drove him from their premises like a dog that already anticipated the boot. Joni had been too kind to refuse to see him at the supermarket, but he'd made it quite clear that he wouldn't stick his neck out for Irakli.

It was a dry, cold winter's day and there was nowhere outside that was safe from the wind. He'd smoked the undamaged cigarettes from his packet and all but given up when he sauntered into the boatyard. The Turkish owner got whatever local gossip he got neither from the churches nor the bars, so he just shrugged at Irakli's appearance and said, "You ask no questions and I'll ask no questions."

He added insult to injury when he paid Irakli with a packet of Russian cigarettes and a grin that said Irakli wouldn't dare challenge him on it.

He didn't.

At least when he got home, he would be arriving at the expected time and he would be able to sneak into the bathroom and shower and tidy himself up as much as possible before his mother noticed anything amiss. He'd think of something to say to her on the walk home, he figured.

He got home on time. He finished the sharp, strong Russian cigarette he'd been smoking and looked up at the apartment block. He'd think of something to say on the way up, or while he was in the shower, he figured.

He opened the door and paused. "Hi, Mum?"

Her reply did not come from Vano's room, so he abandoned the idea of getting a change of clothes before the shower. He was halfway down the hall to the bathroom when she came to call him back and Irakli froze, not turning to her.

"Come through to the living room, won't you, son? The priest just happens to be here and I thought perhaps you would be more comfortable speaking with him at home."

Irakli sighed. The fewer steps there were between him and the bathroom, the more aware he was of the pain in his body. He didn't think anything was broken, but he'd not had a chance to see what had been done, and whatever incredulous energy had driven him through the day up until that point was running low. "No, Mum, I'm tired. I just want to have a shower and sit with Dad for a bit, if that's ok?"

He heard her approach and angled himself away from her.

"I know, but just for a moment. Please. I don't know how to talk to you, your father would know - "

Irakli flinched as she wrapped her hands imploringly round his forearm.

"I am on my own, and the Lord's guidance is all I have."

He tried to move past her, grimacing at what she said. "Let me just shower first, Mum."

They each pulled in their own directions, and whatever way he moved, she must have caught sight of his face because she gasped and released his arm.

"What is _that_? Have you been fighting?"

He rolled his eyes and opened the bathroom door. "No. Yes. I'm going for a shower."


	31. Chapter 31

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are some specific content warnings for a few of these chapters in the notes at the end of Chapter 22.

It was his arms that surprised him - they'd taken the brunt of the blows aimed at his head and chest and yet he'd barely noticed the bruising until he pulled his top off. Under the dim yellow light in the bathroom his skin bloomed in sickly patches of purple. His ribs and one leg showed the same colours, one dark, rectangular shadow on his thigh reminding him that his phone was now next to useless.

He looked reluctantly up at the mirror.

After that first blow, he'd managed to protect his head fairly well, but his cheek was swollen and bright with pain. Bruising had gathered, thick and fat, under one eye, and the skin had broken where his head had been knocked against the floor beneath him, leaving black, dry blood clinging in flakes to the surrounding skin.

Irakli swore and climbed wearily under the cold shower water. It was agony on his face, and agony again when he screwed his features up in discomfort. He forced himself to stay under the weak stream, and gingerly rubbed away the dried blood and dust from the day. He still couldn't believe himself: he had just curled up and taken it, like he thought somehow he deserved the beating. What would he have done if Giorgi hadn't turned up then and distracted them? Just let them tear him to pieces like the rotting hulk of the building they were working on?

There was a tremble in his limbs that he tried to ignore. The frigid water finally began to numb his aches but it did not cool the rage he turned against himself.

For the first time in a long while, he angrily wished that he could just be normal: he'd been engaged to a beautiful woman, in a relationship he'd chosen for himself, with the offering of a stable career path and a wider network of family resources. Why the hell had it been so important to hold onto the memory of one aberrant summer weekend? To _tell_ people about it, like it couldn't have been real until he was able to describe the way Merab moved under dappled orange light, to explain how his smile and the ferocity with which he approached everything was intoxicating, addictive.

If only Irakli could make others understand. It all made sense perfect to him as soon as he thought of Merab.

He dried himself carefully and pulled his dirty work clothes back on. The priest had not gone, and he sat there on the couch, black-robed and serious.

"I don't want to talk to you, father," he said, holding his dad's ripped jacket in a bundle against his aching body. His voice was sharp, despite his words. "I've had kind of a long day, and you're sitting on my bed. I'd just like to get some rest, if you don't mind."

Elizabeth stared at his face; the priest tried hard to keep his eyes on Irakli's eyes and not on the surrounding injuries.

His mother folded her arms to stop herself from reaching out to him. "Don't you understand, this is why I need the father's advice, Irakli. He is a man, and he can talk to you man to man. I...I cannot understand you anymore. I don't recognise you."

He looked imploringly at her and shook his head. "I haven't changed, Mum."

She wouldn't hold his eyes and opened a palm to beg the priest, saying “Please, help him.”

They way he and his mother stood in their own house in front of this black-robed intruder made Irakli think of a trial.

"Sit down, boy," the priest said carefully, gesturing to the space beside him on the couch.

Irakli turned to his mother. "Please, Mum, just ask him to leave. I'll talk to you about whatever you want, but I just want to lie down."

She glanced at him and, tight-lipped, crossed herself.

With a sigh, he noticed the anger he'd been feeling grow again. "Do I have you ask you to leave myself, father? To prove that I'm the man of the house?"

"I don't think it would be a good idea for me to leave now. You seem quite worked up," the priest returned smoothly. "Why don't you sit down, rest? Tell me what happened to you today."

Irakli made a derisive noise. Beaten up, fired, rejected from every job he asked for except one that didn't pay - it would be bad enough admitting that to his mother, let alone doing so in front of the priest.

Irakli shrugged his father's coat on and left the living room with a wave of his hand and an expression of frustration on his lips.

"Where are you going?" Elizabeth followed him, wringing her hands. "What happened to your jacket? Do you know how many years your father had that?"

They were alone in the hall as Irakli pushed his feet back into his shoes and checked his pockets for his cigarettes and lighter.

"What happened to you, my love?" Elizabeth's tone softened, too quiet to be heard from the living room, and Irakli eyed her sharply.

"Get rid of the priest, Mum."

"I need his support," she insisted.

"Well it looks like you get his instead of mine."

He spoke calmly, stepped out of the front door, and shut it with care. His heart was hammering and his ribs burned as his breath quickened. He was bone tired and had to push himself away from the entrance and grip the handrail as he trudged heavily down the stairs of the block. He couldn't text anyone, so he lit a cigarette and walked in the direction of Shota's place.


	32. Chapter 32

Shota didn’t immediately want to let him into the block. "What if someone sees you here? What're they gonna think, man? Are you just standing on the street where anyone could see it's you?"

"Where the fuck else am I going to stand, Shota?" Irakli leaned his forehead against the wall by the intercom. "Look, my phone's wrecked and I can't...I can't be at home right now. Just let me crash on your couch, I'll be gone tomorrow morning."

Shota sighed into the intercom. "Ok. All right, fine. But I'm inviting Zinaida over too, so if anyone asks I can say I was mediating between you two."

Irakli's protests were ignored - Shota had already put the receiver down and a moment later the outer door clicked open. Cursing his friend, Irakli went inside and made his way to Shota's family home.

When he saw Irakli's face, Shota's mouth fell open and he stopped, wide-eyed, in the doorway.

" _What the fuck_?"

Irakli shrugged, one-shouldered. "Look, I just want somewhere to crash, man; I'm sorry."

"Yeah, yeah." Shota didn't move. He looked Irakli up and down. "You should have said. What happened?"

He shrugged again, more extravagantly this time. "What does it look like? I got fired, Shota. Can I please come in?"

Shota moved aside to let him in and ushered Irakli to the TV area outside his bedroom. Incredible smells of spices and sizzling fat were filling the spotless apartment and Shota called to his mother in the kitchen, " _Nana_ , Irakli's here, will there be enough for him to eat, too?"

She called back in the affirmative and Shota pushed Irakli towards the couch.

"She's not heard anything, don't worry - no shifts this weekend, and we haven't been to mass in years." Shota smiled, though his dark eyes were full of worry.

Irakli sank into the soft cushions of the couch and leaned his head back with a groan. "Do you think your dad can get me a place on his boat?"

Shota looked down at him. "First, it's not 'his boat', it's a ship, and second, with a face like that? The Ukrainian truckers will take you for one of their own."

Irakli tried to laugh at his attempt at humour, but his face felt tight and sore. "You don't need to invite Zinaida over, really, I don't think anyone saw me."

"She's worried about you, actually." Shota dragged a large black beanbag over and flopped into its depths. He was texting as he spoke. "Her parents were all ready to blame her for the break-up - yeah, I know, even though they didn't think you were all that. But you've conveniently got her off the hook there. Now they can simply malign her terrible taste in men."

Shota put his phone away and frowned at Irakli, who remained swaddled in his father's thick coat, sullen and quiet as he tried to sink deeper into the couch.

"Well? Was he worth it?"

Irakli glared at Shota and stretched his chin above the collar of his jacket to mutter, "Piss off..." before he turtled down again.

"No, I'm genuinely asking! What's he like? He's a dancer, right?"

He closed his eyes. Hadn't this been all he'd wanted? Just to tell someone, to talk about it? To share a newfound enthusiasm...

"He was. He's the one I asked about - Givi said he'd caused some scandal and left." Irakli forced himself to look over at Shota, whose expression was neutral, interested.

"Was he good? At dancing!" Shota grimaced and held his palms up to preclude any gruesome details.

Irakli did laugh then, and it hurt, but he didn't mind. "Yeah. Maybe not...by traditional standards. They're pretty stuffy at the National. But…" He felt himself blush and it made the cut on his face throb with heat. "It was more fun to watch him. He was more fun to dance with."

Shota shook his head and couldn't quite suppress a smirk. "So what happened? Did you get found out and have to leave?"

"No..." Irakli described their last meeting at the wedding, when he'd explained to Merab he was leaving Tbilisi permanently. He didn't mention the unanswered texts, or the phone call that had been cut off. "If I hadn't heard from Mum right then...I don't know. I'd told him I'd see him for practice. I had to explain."

"But you haven't kept in touch?"

"No, there's no point, it wouldn't be fair, right?" Irakli had emerged a little from the huddled ball he'd made himself among the cushions. "I'm meant to be married, for Christ's sake..."

Shota pulled an equivocating face. "I guess. Then why are you so hung up on it? It's over, you're never going back..."

Of course that was what he'd been saying to himself for months now, but it still made Irakli's arms tighten against his chest until he felt his injuries protest. He grimaced down at his own knees and nodded a little in acknowledgement of Shota's manoeuvre.

"I know. I think it's just...it's a way of thinking about what might have happened if Dad hadn't gotten worse then. If I hadn't had to come back, but had gone to the audition, you know?"

"Hm," said Shota, his own arms folded. "I'm sure. It's all about Mr Vano really. You think I don't listen to you, don't you? Blah, blah, blah, oh Shota doesn't care, he's just waiting for his next chance to make a sexy, witty punchline..."

Irakli couldn't help but laugh, though he knew how badly Shota wanted him to, and it still annoyed him that he acquiesced so easily to Shota's need for an audience. But he was grateful at the same time for the excuse to laugh.

"Still, I know that if I say the name _Merab_ , you'll have no response because this is really just all about your dad, isn't it?"

The chime sounded for the intercom and Shota rose triumphantly from his beanbag. He pointed a steady finger down at Irakli's face, on which, as Irakli was painfully aware, his expression had slipped into something open and longing.

He said nothing as Shota pointed out his raised colour and quick breath, and Shota made sure to finish his observations even as his mother called for him to answer the intercom.

"Definitely just about Vano," he said with a twist of his lip, and went to let Zinaida in.

Irakli sighed when Shota finally left him and he tried to tuck his legs up to his body, but his bruises hurt too much. Instead he leaned into the corner of the sofa, against its arm, and he stared at his reflection in the black TV screen: a pale face and hands against the his dark surroundings, unable to make himself as small or as comfortable as he wanted to be.

He looked warily up as Zinaida approached, second-guessing what he felt at seeing her, trying not to overthink her expression.

She was pale, her eyes a little red and wide, and her hair was swept back in a messy ponytail. She saw his injuries and stopped with a gasp, her hands rising to cover her mouth.

"Oh, my god!"

Shota, trailing after, said, "I warned you..."

"Did my cousin Giorgi do this to you? I'm gonna kill him!" She reached out to his face and withdrew her hands at the same time as Irakli flinched away.

"Nah, it wasn't Giorgi. He got there too late to join in..." He looked away, remembering his dissatisfaction with his own response. He didn't want to relive that now. He didn't want to think about those minutes ever again.

Zinaida looked to Shota for confirmation but Shota just shrugged. She settled on the couch next to Irakli with an exasperated sigh and eyed the hand curled in his lap, wondering whether she would be permitted to take it in hers.

"I've been worried about you. I thought Viktor was just being a prick when he texted, but my sister heard someone talking on Saturday night. You never denied it."

"My phone's broken."

Shota made an incredulous sound. He stood by the TV, his hands on his hips, undecided as to whether to sit down or to leave them alone for a bit.

"And it's true," Irakli added through gritted teeth.

"Jesus..." Zinaida sat back and looked at him. "Are you for real? So you never - ? We never - ? It wasn't anything?"

Irakli glared at Shota as he slunk back, moving towards the kitchen. He couldn't have forced himself further into the corner of the couch had he tried.

"Shota, get him an ice pack, for fuck's sake," Zinaida called.

"You think I know where ice packs are in my own house?"

"You have a freezer don't you? Try there!"

Shota waved his arms in exasperation and went, while Irakli closed his eyes and tried to remember what being in love with Zinaida had felt like.

"It wasn't nothing," he muttered. Slowly, he turned his hand over and invited her to clasp it. "It wasn't nothing, Zinaida, I didn't know until this...happened."

Her fingers slid cool and fresh against his palm and she squeezed his hand. It felt good to remember old habits and to stroke the backs of her knuckles with his thumb.

"At least I understand why you didn't want to talk, now." She shuffled a little closer. "I could have a word with my Dad, you know. I could get him to speak with Giorgi, get you back on site. I know you need the job."

"No." Irakli winced as he tensed up, still unable to look at Zinaida, still leaning on the arm of the couch though he held her hand softly in his. "No, I won't go back there."

"Then what are you going to do?" She spoke gently, but the undercurrent of impatience was clear enough to Irakli.

He said nothing. He had no ideas. He thought of going home and felt queasy; he thought of another day looking for work, or returning to the Turkish boatyard in the hope of cash payment, and he dreaded it.

Zinaida observed this miserable silence, her two hands now enfolding his. Her skin had warmed against his own and she squeezed his hand with care. "You know, I guess we could just keep on pretending?"

"What?" He turned to her at last, squinting through his swollen eye.

Zinaida shrugged. She pressed her lips together and opened her eyes wide, like she did when she was offering a casual suggestion for a date and trying to hide how much she wanted things her way. "Well, what do people really know? Nothing. Viktor's drunken word and you storming out of church - what does that actually mean? We could get back together, get married - people can't think you're gay then. And it's like we always said - my family gets off my back, your family gets off your back, and we can live our own lives."

He frowned - his immediate response wasn't an unthinking, gut rejection of her offer, though he might have expected it to be. Still, beneath the hope her suggestion awoke he felt self-loathing curl inside him. He was a coward. "It won't stop people talking though, will it? All our life people will bring it up. People will say as much about you as about me, then."

"Let them - it's none of their business." Zinaida tossed her chin with bravado.

Irakli smiled, looking down at their hands entwined on his lap.

Shota returned with a packet of frozen vegetables wrapped in a towel. He looked strangely at the two of them on the couch as he handed the bundle to Irakli and Zinaida took it. She pressed it gently to his face and Irakli closed his eyes, accepting the care he could no longer rely on at home.

The beanbag rustled as Shota threw himself down into it again. "So, I was thinking, Iko..."

"Always dangerous," Irakli murmured. The ice against his cheek and eye was like a fire, cleansing away all the aches and tensions underneath and replacing them with a single, burning cold.

"Why don't you go back to Tbilisi?"

"What?" Irakli moved his head suddenly and winced at the extra pressure of the ice pack on his bruises. Zinaida had shifted her grip at the same time and asked the same question moments after Irakli.

Shota raised his brows and spread his hands. "Your granny's still there, right? You can stay with her. It's probably easier to get a job in the capital, and you can send money back, like you were doing before."

He stared at Shota, feeling like he was in free-fall, like a door had just opened up in front of him and let in a light too blinding to face. "But my dad..."

"You're not doing much for him right now, are you?" Shota said bluntly. "Go away for a bit - Elizabeth will remember how much she missed you last time you were in Tbilisi. We can let you know if there's any news, right, Zinaida?"

She looked at Shota with the tiniest frown of annoyance. Irakli gathered the towel and the ice pack from her hand and tucked it under his jacket and his top, hissing at the feeling of it against his bruised ribs. Zinaida's astonished expression shifted back to him, as though it had simply not occurred to her that he'd been injured anywhere else.

Irakli thought about his mother's words earlier that evening: _I am on my own_. It was why he had come home - precisely so that she wouldn't be alone. And yet now she acted as though he had abandoned her. He could marry Zinaida, like he had planned to, and his mother would be overjoyed. He could run away to the capital and she would be hurt like he supposed she had never been hurt before. It should have been an obvious choice.

"I think...I'd want to talk to my mum first."

"Irakli!" Zinaida turned to him. "If you leave like that people will take it as confirmation - they'll figure you've got something to be guilty about! It will be so much worse if you come back afterwards."

"Or people will forget - find other things to talk about," Shota interjected.

Irakli shifted his grip on the ice pack and sought her hand with his newly free, cold fingers. He looked down at the touch rather than at her expression. "I know this probably doesn't make much sense, Ziniko, but as shitty as the last weekend's been...it also sucked having to lie to everyone."

Zinaida watched his fingers interlacing with hers. "But you'd be safer if you did. You don't have to lie to me and Shota anymore, but everyone else? That's not going to change."

"I think...anything I do now will be used by some people to prove their point. I've done everything wrong since I came back." He sighed. "And, at my granny's I'll have a room to myself again. Oh - " Irakli looked up at Shota. "When's your audition?"

"Next week." Shota fidgeted awkwardly under Zinaida's glare. "I was going to get the bus on Friday, have a weekend partying in the capital."

"Maybe I should audition for my old place." Irakli managed a mischievous grin.

Shota protested, "Oh, that's the thanks I get for helping you out? Fucking hell..."

His mother called out from the kitchen, "Shota, how many of us are eating?"

Zinaida shook her head and Shota got up to go back to the kitchen.

Irakli squeezed her hand.

She looked miserable and uncomprehending. "I just don't think you should make another rash decision..."

"No..." he agreed. "That's why it might be a good idea to get away for a bit. You don't have to wait around for me - I can't imagine the shit people have been saying to you over the weekend."

Zinaida sniffed. "I have a dad who people want to be employed by, remember? And a heap of male cousins who will beat up anyone who upsets me - sorry. I didn't mean..."

He winced. "I know. Zinaida - thank you. You've put up with a lot."

She tried to smile, and a wave of nostalgia hit him. Carefully, he reached across to stroke her hair and kiss her forehead. She laughed unsteadily and pulled her hand free from his.

"Do you want me to say anything? If people ask?"

"It's probably better if you just say you don't know." He rearranged the ice pack again. The cold was starting to lose its strength as he hugged it to his body. He shook his head at his own lap.

"I guess that's true enough." She tried to laugh but it sounded snippy. She tried to smile as she stood up, but it was a forced, uneven thing. "Be careful, Irakli. Don't do anything stupid when you go back."

He looked up at her, pre-emptive guilt written on his features. "Of course not."

As she left, he knew he had let her down once more, and he hoped she wouldn't give him the opportunity to do so again. It was a struggle to unfold himself from the couch and he groaned at the pain as he got up and took the warm ice pack from under his clothes. Shota and his mother were setting up the dining table, and Irakli wandered stiffly over to them.

Shota's mother gasped and shook her head at the sight of him. "Shota told me you had an accident at work?"

Irakli shrugged and apologised as he returned the melted ice pack. She took it and promised to get him a fresh one, and Irakli finally pulled off his father's jacket and sat down at the table with a sigh and a grateful glance at Shota.


	33. Chapter 33

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We're back in Tbilisi! There are other characters from the film! Yes, Merab will turn up _at last_ (well, in Ch. 35)!

He hadn't expected much from his last conversation with his mother. She only wanted to hear one of two things from him: that he was going fix things by talking to the priest or by talking to Zinaida.

There was no point mentioning that he'd seen Zinaida at Shota's - he didn't want to cause Shota trouble by even saying that was where he'd been. He just wanted to tell this mother where he would be before he left, so that she could find him whenever she needed him again.

When he'd entered the apartment early in the morning, Elizabeth had been sleepless with worry, waiting in the living room with the local radio on and a pot of cold tea.

Relief had passed over her face quickly, and, though he thought for a moment she would stand and offer to embrace him, she gripped the arms of her chair and stayed herself. As soon as she saw him return, she convinced herself he had only gone away in order to make her worry.

He knew she didn't like going to Tbilisi herself - she'd grown up there with her parents, but she'd left with Vano and only returned there when it was absolutely necessary. Her mother Rusudan remained, slowly losing her memories in her tiny apartment, waiting, she said, for her own husband to come back.

"Mum, I'm going to stay with Granny Rusudan for a bit."

It hadn't gone down well.

He'd had to accept Shota's money for the bus ticket, but was glad to board the little _marshrutka_ without any trouble - if anyone had any opinions about what they'd heard, or about the deepening colour of the bruising around his eye, they contented themselves with the knowledge that he was leaving town.

He and Shota had talked about where he might look for jobs, what it would be like to sleep in his own bed again - how guilty he'd feel about making his granny sleep on the couch again - how to get money back to Elizabeth, what they'd do when Shota came to the capital for his audition. And Shota had said, slyly, "You might even see Merab again, right?"

It was something Irakli tried not to think about as he arranged to leave Batumi, but the possibility grew in the back of his mind until it was all he could imagine as he watched the countryside pass by outside the bus.

The idea of it overwhelmed him. He felt like he was about to be caught and scolded for his deviousness, like someone would notice that his reasons for leaving Batumi were not purely those of self-preservation, not driven by the selfless need to find work and support his parents, but were motivated by the chance of seeing Merab again. He worried that if he did seek Merab, out it would make that true, as though getting drunk and talking about him, as though getting beaten up and losing his job had all been part of Irakli's plan to get back to Tbilisi, to get back to Merab.

As he fretted, gnawing on his short, reddened fingernails, he remembered Merab's steady response to his bombshell: _"Really? Congratulations."_

What if he'd not cared that much? What if he had no interest in seeing Irakli again?

Irakli's pulse quickened and he flinched as he pulled too deep at the nail on his finger and blood welled from underneath. _No, no_ , he reminded himself: he'd been about to leave, thinking Merab hadn't cared, when he'd called him back.

_"I don't need it anymore."_

Irakli touched his agonised fingertips to his earring and yearned to know what that had meant.

He leaned against the window and closed his eyes as the radio played the song they'd sung in Mary's car on the way up to the summerhouse.

He dreamt, fitfully, of moments that frightened him, that he wanted more than was rational or sensible. He watched Merab dance alone in the studio, playful and carefree, wearing his black uniform and moving his hands in the way Aleko hated. He landed perfectly from his leap and Irakli went to him. He kneeled beside Merab and ran his hand up Merab's thigh. "What?" Merab said, and Irakli laughed and kissed him. They tumbled to the hard floor together, one body's black-clothed limbs indistinguishable from the other's in the mirrors that lined the studio wall. Irakli knew it was stupid to do it there, but he couldn't help himself: he needed to get Merab's clothes off, and then their reflections became a confusion of skin instead. Merab kissed him furiously. "You said we'd practice in the morning; I've been waiting for ages."

With a nervous start, Irakli woke and looked around. The minibus had stopped somewhere in the Kartli countryside, an hour or more from Tbilisi.

"There's been an accident up ahead," the old woman next to him said, and crossed herself.

Irakli sighed and resettled his bag against his aching body. It was long since dark - he'd expected to be in the city late, but not so late that his grandmother would have gone to bed. There was nothing to be done. He squinted into the darkness and picked out the stars against the clear sky. With the engine off the bus was getting cold, and Irakli shrugged his leather jacket back on and wrapped his father's woollen work coat over his knees.

Hours later, by the time he stepped, aching and stiff-legged, from the _marshrutka_ , Tbilisi had settled into a muffled, freezing darkness. It was really late, and he had convinced himself on the last leg of the journey that there was no point disturbing his grandma or her neighbours when they weren't expecting him.

Nervous and too excited to think of any other options, Irakli walked in the direction of the only other place he'd stayed in the city. Anticipation made his breath short and he smoked his last Russian cigarette too quickly as he thought about seeing Merab again. The little apartment would be crowded now, but Irakli imagined lying on the bed that had been David's, meeting Merab's eyes across the room, and not sleeping at all if he could just see Merab smile at him like he had done before.

First thing: he would say sorry, and he would admit what a mistake he had made. He couldn’t think any further ahead than that – he just needed to see Merab again, needed the reminder that it had been real, everything that had haunted him over the past months.

He climbed the stairs in the little courtyard and knocked on the door, though he knew it would be unlocked.

Despite the hour, from inside, he could hear pots and pans banging, women's voices raised and overlapping. The smell of cooking leaked through the uneven edges of the door.

After a moment, not long enough for Irakli to swallow the feeling that his heart was in his throat, the door swung inwards and, haloed by a gust of humid, spiced air, stood Sopo.

She was flustered, annoyed, and noticeably pregnant. She looked him up and down in surprise, but before either he or she could speak, David sidled his way down the corridor and into the doorway.

David matched her appearance with the fine sheen of sweet on his brow, the colour in his cheeks, and the expression of shock on his face.

The married couple looked at each other - Sopo up, David down - and both spoke at once.

"He can't come in, it's chaos in here!"

"We'll set another place."

Sopo laughed incredulously, and they both continued to ignore Irakli. "Where? Did you know he was coming?"

"No, we'll squeeze up; it's fine."

"What if there isn't enough food?"

"There will _always_ be enough food."

They both turned to Irakli simultaneously.

"I'm so sorry - "

"It's good to see you - "

"Come in - "

"Now really isn't a good time."

David looked at her again. "What do you mean? Also, shouldn't you be keeping an eye on her? If you're not in the kitchen for the whole process she'll say you're neglecting your duties..."

"And when I'm there she says I'm in the way!"

David sighed and stroked one of Sopo's curls back from her face. "It'll get easier. She gets easier."

It was a gesture more tender than any Irakli had seen him make before, and it caused something to press against his heart again, hard.

Sopo looked thoughtfully at Irakli. "What happened to your face?"

He shrugged. "Sorry, if it's a bad time..."

Sopo waved a hand. "Ah, it's fine." She turned back inside the apartment, calling out in answer to the enquiring voice of David and Merab's grandmother.

David turned a weary expression on Irakli. " _Welcome_." Then, with genuine pleasure: "Never thought you'd be back in Tbilisi, man. It's good to see you."

Irakli's hand tightened on the shoulder strap of his bag, his smile turning fixed and polite. "Yeah, sorry it's late. I can go..."

David, the man of the house now, had already turned half away, expecting Irakli to follow. He looked back over his shoulder and scoffed. "Come on, come in. You arrived at a bad time in that my grandmother and my wife can't decide who's in charge of the kitchen - but it's a good time if you're hungry." He stopped and turned back and gestured at Irakli with his chin. "What _did_ happen to your face? You're not on the run are you?"

Irakli tried to brush it off with a laugh. "No...accident at work."

"You got that _dancing_?"

"Nah, I'm in construction now, just like you."

David snorted. "Everyone ends up in construction." He looked Irakli up and down, and Irakli thought he probably didn't believe in accidents at work, but he said nothing else until Irakli hesitated again. Then David raised his brows and offered a smile. "You didn't mind just following me in here at dawn when I couldn't even call it my apartment..."

With a hollow chuckle, Irakli stepped forwards and closed the door behind him. "I barely knew where I was."

"Oh, we should go out and do that again," David groaned, though it wasn't really a serious request. "I miss those nights."

Irakli thought he made a sound of agreement, but it was hard to be certain as he became more and more aware of the way his heart was pounding. He prepared himself, with every step, for the encounter he had longed for, feeling like he was merely passing through a cloud of domestic distraction on the way to a clear peak, where everything would make sense again.

"Hey, Mum, you remember Irakli?" David turned and looked at Irakli again as Irakli raised his palm in greeting to the tired, worried-looking woman sitting at the small dining table.

She nodded uncertainly.

Irakli scanned the room behind her. He glanced down the corridor and strained his ears to hear the sounds from the kitchen.

"Did you need a place to stay?" David nodded at Irakli's bag.

He saw Irakli hesitate and gestured for him to follow on. "It's ok, you can have a sheet on the floor, just like old days. Mum sleeps here now." He was pointing to his old bed. "And grandma here." David pointed to the couch where Merab used to sleep.

There were no posters on the wall, but Irakli picked out the shadow of old blu-tack. He remembered each poster that had been there before: the dancers, the films. His fist clenched on his bag strap and his jaw tightened. He wanted to say to David that it was fine - he would find somewhere else - but he smothered the foolish impulse. He had not come here, tonight, just for Merab. It had been about finding someplace to stay.

"I can trust you with the honour of these ladies, can't I?" David said with a wry expression.

"You have my word." The phrase dropped from Irakli's lips like an automated response activated by someone, something else. He hoped it sounded appropriately jokey. He cleared his throat and looked around with extravagant curiosity.

"Where, uh, where's Merab?"

David's shoulders sagged visibly as he sighed at the empty wall above his brother's old bed. "He went to live with Ioseb. There was hell when - " He frowned at Irakli. "Wait, you don't know. He left the National Ensemble. Something about the audition went...I don't know. He seemed pleased with what he'd done."

Irakli swallowed drily, assembling these new scraps of information together with what Givi had told him.

"Anyway." David shoved his hands in his trouser pockets and shrugged: it was the gesture of a patriarch, learned through the cares of providing for a household. "The dancing was pretty important to Grandma Nona. And Mum, in her own way. He couldn't get any peace, so he went to work at Eliava with our father. I think he's saving to move out; he says he'll sign up for courses next semester."

"He doesn't dance anymore?" Irakli made himself ask, though it sounded hollow and bleak to his ears, not like he was surprised by new information.

David didn't notice the tone. He shrugged again uncomfortably, and his brows lowered as he looked away. He was holding something back. "What a waste, right? He's always been dancing."


	34. Chapter 34

Between Nona's snoring on the bed to one side of him and on the other side the restless movement of Inga Deyda as she struggled to sleep, Irakli couldn't even close his eyes. The sheet seemed to smell of Merab. If he closed his eyes, he was smothered by phantom memories: Merab with his hands on Irakli's body, moving up to kiss him in the morning light, his eyelashes golden like the chain he wore round his neck, the chain that dropped down, trailing against Irakli's chest.

He had no cigarettes left, but he pulled on his jacket and slipped outside to see if the fresh air would clear his mind of dreams, or fill it full enough to let him sleep.

He leaned on the railing outside the door, watching his breath move like clouds in front of the bare branches of the trees in the courtyard.

"Grandma Nona's snoring too much for you?"

David opened and closed the front door with well-practised silence. He shook his packet of cigarettes and glanced at the curtain in the neighbour's window to make sure it didn’t twitch. Satisfied that Aurora was asleep, he lit a cigarette and passed the packet to Irakli.

Irakli thanked him and drew in the warming smoke with relief. Tbilisi got much colder than Batumi in winter, and he wasn't coping well with it.

"I didn't get a chance to ask you earlier - what are you back in town for?" David stood straight-backed next to Irakli, surveying the court below.

"Taking a break. Seeing Granny Rusudan," Irakli murmured.

David eyed him. "Huh. Yeah. You need work?"

Irakli sighed. "It's that obvious?"

"One fuck-up recognises another," David shrugged. "What did you do?"

"Broke it off with my fiancée. I'd been working for her dad, but that's not really possible now. My Mum is furious." Irakli did not look at David as he explained in half-truths.

David made a sympathetic sound. "Not sure I'm popular enough with my in-laws yet to get you anything with Sopo's dad."

"I'll find something, don't worry about it." Irakli gestured vaguely with his cigarette. He missed the easy silence he'd had to himself in the empty, cold night, but he found the cigarette soothing and was grateful to David for that.

He didn't know what made him say the next thing - it felt devious and leading even as the words slipped out.

"I'm thinking of auditioning for the National again. It was a steady income, reliable at least."

David hissed as he exhaled a plume of thick smoke. "The pay is shit. You can do better."

"I kind of miss dancing though. At least I know I'm good at it."

Irakli looked surreptitiously over at David. He was working his jaw and glaring up at the sky and Irakli thought he knew exactly what made David fidget uncomfortably and chew the inside of his lip. It looked remarkably like the need to share some difficult information, when you weren't sure how it might be received.

"You're seriously thinking of going back?" David asked.

"Yeah," Irakli lied. He told David the time of Shota's audition as if it was his own.

They smoked in silence for a while, and then David fidgeted again, made a sound of exasperation, and gripped the railing hard in his two fists, shoulder-width apart. He looked over at Irakli with a serious, frank expression. "Well I guess it's only fair I tell you, then."

David seemed pugnacious at the best of times, but now Irakli saw a defensiveness and a pride in his expression that was rare. "Luka and the other guys there - they'll say stuff. About Merab."

A cold wave of nausea passed over Irakli's body. He looked mournfully up at David.

"It's...I think he'd be ok with me telling you. So you know how to handle Luka. And if you've got a problem - you can fucking freeze tonight, ok? You're not coming back in my house."

Irakli's eyes dropped down to the lit tip of his cigarette and he realised, with a sudden sense of vertigo, that he was just going to admit to David what it had taken him months to tell anyone at home.

"Luka will say Merab's…that he's…"

Irakli cut off David's words before he could speak the slur aloud. "…I know."

Mouth open, eyes agog, David peeled one hand from the railing to raise his cigarette to his lips. "Huh?" The sound he made conveyed a number of contradictory things.

Irakli looked at the black branches of the trees and filled his lungs with the harsh, prickling feeling of tobacco. "I know he's gay."

Just saying the words out loud made his skin burn like the back of his throat.

David's laugh was nervous. "Jesus, what, did he make a pass at you?"

After a pause, Irakli answered laconically, "Yeah."

He gazed at the orange street lights, and despite the cold, their glow reminded him of the garden at the vineyard. He remembered the way the porch lights had captured the shape of Merab's body - honey-coloured, shimmering like precious metal as he danced and Irakli gazed up at him, awed.

David was watching his expression. Finally, heavily, he came to lean by Irakli, his elbows on the railing. "Shit. Sorry. Wait a minute," he said slowly. "Are you serious? When?"

Despairing, Irakli saw that David wasn't going to ask the right questions. He bit the inside of his lower lip and stared into the distant memory. "At Mary's place. I didn't say no," he said quietly.

He felt David tense, like an animal with fur standing on end, unnerved and unable to hide it. "What?" was all he said.

Irakli watched ash drop from the tip of his cigarette, glowing briefly before it vanished into the darkness below them. Finally, he met David's eyes, and hoped that the sincerity in his expression would come through.  
David's jaw worked. His expression was shadowed. "You screwed my little brother?"  
Irakli let out an incredulous hiss of laughter - he couldn't stop it, though for a moment he thought David might lean back and throw a punch. He shrugged and nodded and took a drag on his cigarette.

"Shit," David drew the word out, leaning away but only to light up another cigarette as he reappraised Irakli. He looked unsettled, queasy, but not in the furious way Irakli was starting to recognise. Then he made a sound of frustration and shook his head, turning back to the courtyard as he handed Irakli the cigarettes again.

"You really shouldn't go back then, Luka will ruin you if he finds out."

"I'll be sure not to make a pass at him," Irakli said sarcastically.

David looked at him again, his head moving sharply as he pulled himself up before he found the right words. In the end, he couldn't help himself. "Look, you're not going to...you didn't come back for...?"

Now Irakli struggled to meet David's eyes. "That's not why I came to Tbilisi. But...if I asked, would you tell me where I could find him? I want to apologise."

"I should ask you what for," David said stubbornly, and Irakli feared that he wouldn't help after all. Then his shoulders relaxed all of a sudden and he let out a breath. "I don't know exactly how you find Ioseb's stall. But I know the area. I can tell you how to get that far, and the locals will show you the rest of the way."

Once he'd been given this information, Irakli thought he'd never manage to sleep: he ran over and over the directions in his head. He tried to make a pact with himself: he would find a job before he went looking for Merab. But the cold and the aches and the exhaustion he felt after talking to David were enough. It did not matter that Inga Deyda was pacing restlessly in the kitchen, nor that Nona was snoring louder than before. Irakli huddled against a sheet that smelled of Merab and fell asleep newly buoyed by hope.


	35. Chapter 35

The week crawled by in a succession of odd jobs - setting up market stalls, unloading deliveries, filling cars at a gas station. No one wanted to offer anything permanent, though they were happy to have a helping hand for the day. Irakli's options were constrained because he avoided the east side of the river, wary of running into Merab before he was ready.

Sleep healed Irakli: good sleep, deep sleep in a room that was peaceful with the city's night time hum. Every time she saw him, Rusudan raised a hue and cry about his bruised face and Irakli calmly told her it had been a silly accident, until finally the dark colours dissipated, leaving a livid shadow on his cheek and a red stipple under his eye. His ribs still looked bad - the clouds of bruising took longer to fade, and he did not have the time to rest his body - but it was winter, and he went nowhere in the flat without at least two layers covering his skin.

As Friday came round, Irakli carefully counted what he had managed to make, and what was not needed for food for him and Rusudan, and he wondered whether he could justify a night out with Shota over the weekend. He knew Shota's number - it hasn't changed in years. He tried to call him in the morning from Rusudan's landline to find out when Shota's bus was.

The eventual reply was not what he had expected, and it left him looking at a long, nervous weekend.

He missed Shota's calls during the day as he worked, and in the evening got hold of him only to be told that Shota was not on his way to Tbilisi.

"My dad got back, and he made some good points - it's not really for me."

"What?"

"Well, it's not a career, is it? Not for life. My dad thinks it'd be a bit pointless."

"And you agree with him?"

"Yeah, you know, I thought maybe I was just doing it to prove I could do anything you could do. And maybe that wasn't the best idea right now." Shota laughed shortly.

Irakli sighed and rubbed his face. "Akh, come on Shota, what's happened?"

"Nothing, nothing. I did think it might not look great if I went running after you to the city though." He laughed again, with even less humour this time. "And more importantly - if I don't use that slot, you can go instead of me. Go and get your place at the National back!"

"Shota, did me coming here fuck this up for you?" Irakli lowered his voice and glanced warily at Rusudan, though she appeared focussed on the television.

"Nah!"

Irakli could hear the lie in Shota's voice. He swore. "I'm sorry. I already owed you big time."

"You'll just have to get so famous and rich scandal can't touch you - you can buy me a house and a nice car then."

"Oh, ok, sure." Irakli let himself chuckle. Shota sounded somewhat disappointed about his audition, but he'd never struggled to keep busy before, and he hadn't lost his dances in the Batumi ensemble.

Irakli thanked him and when the call was over he was left blinking at the peeling paint on the wall. _Shit_ , he needed to practice.

He went to his room and stretched and felt all the dusty corners of his body that hadn't been used; he tried a few poses slowly, carefully - he couldn't afford another injury now. Slowly, he built up speed, and watched his form in the narrow mirror. He remembered he didn't have his dance clothes or his shoes and he stopped to think what could be done.

He imagined what Aleko's response might be to the sight of Irakli walking into the studio in his jogging bottoms and t-shirt and it made him laugh, despite the pain in his ribs. He did a few more routines and felt the satisfaction of muscle memory waking up. It felt so good to remember the moves, to adopt the straight-backed, proud stance and to breathe deeply and follow the familiar routines again.

The lies he had told David looked prescient now, and Irakli had to resist the impulse to go over right then and ask him about his old dance clothes. He could do so on Saturday morning, and go on to Eliava afterwards. The thought made his heart race even before the exercise did, and he practiced until it was late and he was sure he was exhausted enough to sleep.


	36. Chapter 36

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here's our boy! :')

The fears that kneaded Irakli's hunched shoulders and made his breath ragged were not, at first, wholly connected with his surroundings. He did not notice the rainbow sheen on the muddy puddles he passed, or the acidic tang in the air from leaking Soviet machinery. His hands were jammed in his pockets against the cold, his breath misted like smoke around his face, and his feet were icy with water seeping into his trainers. This place would stain them, but that did not concern him as it might once have done.

He feared, more than anything, disappointment. What if, on encountering the vision that had haunted him for weeks, Irakli found himself ambivalent, perplexed by his own obsession? What if the feeling that had driven him hard since he had left Tbilisi evaporated now that the object he had been denied was once more within reach? Was he only consumed by a desire to have what he could not have? Was the impossible nature of it what had appealed so much, set against the stark demands of life with his parents?

What if - he stopped walking, a sickening thought blocking his path - Merab was not happy to see him?

Irakli tried, nonchalantly, to brace himself against the curious stares of vendors, and moved on. Merab deserved to be upset with him. He deserved to be mad. But the thought of remaining unforgiven made Irakli desperate in a way that simultaneously reassured him: he could not be indifferent to seeing Merab again, whatever Merab might feel about him.

The possibility that Merab might be indifferent to him - that was too much to contemplate.

As he moved deeper into the labyrinth of car parts, motors, tools and food stalls, he had to concentrate more. David had given him directions, but he had also said Irakli would probably have to ask a local for the final details.

He didn't want to ask, he didn't want anyone to think too hard about a stranger coming in search of young Merab Lominadze, around whom ungenerous rumours were already known to circulate - thanks to Luka. So Irakli paused by a greasy-smelling shawarma stall, breathing in the humid, spice-heavy air as he searched the area for clues.

It was absurd to think he might not recognise Merab, but he looked around and all he saw was the dusty grey remnants of history's upheavals. Thinking of Merab among this lot was like imagining a bird of paradise among city pigeons. Would the market have taken its toll on him already? Would Irakli see some ghastly echo of his own father in Merab, diminished by hard labour and hard opinions? Here, the past corroded people, seeping up into them like the toxins in the ground.

The woman at the stall behind him seemed impatient for him to buy something, so he moved on, picking a direction and hoping it was the right one.

It was not - but behind him he recognised Merab's voice suddenly, and it was like the sun breaking through a haze of grey cloud. Irakli's heart punched at the inside of his chest, even though Merab was arguing about something, and sounded strung-out and tired.

Irakli turned, searching for the source of the increasingly salty words. He couldn't see Merab, but the man he was arguing with was visible: he had a deep voice and the crooked nose earned by all men of a certain age. He bore a certain resemblance to David in his solid features, but there was little to mark him out as a relative of Merab's. He had no dancer's poise in his body now, though he looked strong beneath his thin tracksuit.

The argument turned on whether Merab should go to see another vendor about something on his father's behalf, and as Irakli approached, he was gratified to hear that Merab got his way - Ioseb left with a muttered word about ingratitude and Merab settled onto a rickety stool to mind the stall.

Irakli froze stupidly at the sight of him. He looked pissy and savage, his arms folded across his chest, his body hunched over his knees. His beautiful hair was slightly neater than Irakli remembered it, smoothed carefully back from his temples, kept a little shorter. He raised a hand to bite his nails, frowned at the grease staining his fingers, and stuffed his hands back in his armpits. Irakli could see his jaw moving with annoyance.

It was not, perhaps, the best time to make himself known, though Irakli had been drawn close to the stall by the much missed voice and the need to lay eyes on him again. He wondered if he could turn and leave before he was noticed, but then Merab's furious scowl swept across the market and landed full on him.

Rooted to the ground, Irakli felt heat in his face, like Merab's stare really was a spotlight. He might have flinched, his body folding in on itself, hands inching deeper into pockets, shoulders rising higher towards ears.

Merab's expression was the same pristine window on his heart it had always been, and then Irakli could only grin sheepishly, immediately, when he saw Merab's eyes widen, his mouth drop open in disbelief.

Merab scooted off the stool and stood there, ready, his hands clenched at his sides, straining like a dog on a leash. He was held back by the same thing that fought to close his open features down, and Irakli recognised his fear all too well.

He made himself walk, one achingly slow step at a time, towards Ioseb Lominadze's stall.

"Hey, I was looking to buy some, uh..." Irakli looked up, scanning the array of vicious looking metal things that hung along the front of the stall. "One of those?" He did not look where he pointed; he could not take his attention off Merab.

Merab had clenched his jaw, securing his face into a pale, hardened wall. His eyes were fixed on Irakli's, and Irakli could see that his breath had deepened. Usually, Irakli would laugh or try another joke to diffuse the threat of an expression like that, but his attempt faltered this time. His smile slipped off his face, and he knew he must look like he'd just been slapped. He stood there, gawping at Merab, no longer concerned by the rest of the market around them.

"Sorry," Irakli said very quietly.

Merab drew a breath like he had been struck in return. His hand moved reflexively and he took another step closer before he stopped himself. His eyes, changeable hazel, bored into Irakli with an intensity that Irakli knew so well now, in a way he had barely begun to understand the last time they had spoken.

His voice was hoarse when he found it again. "I just got back this week. Life's been crazy. But I asked David how to find you."

Merab's first question came with a directness that shook him: "What happened to your face?"

The bruising had faded so much, he really didn't think it was that obvious. It took him more than a moment to gather a reply, to summon up a dismissive chuckle. "Ah, this? It's nothing. Accident at work. I forgot about it totally." Irakli ducked his head and rubbed his thumb casually at his cheek, wincing where it remained tender.

With a frown, Merab crossed his arms. Irakli tried to remember if he'd ever seen him do so before: in doing so, he had retreated a little, evidently unsatisfied with the answer. He had noticed the lack of wedding ring on Irakli's fingers, surely, but he glanced around the market and asked, "What are you doing here?"

"Here? At this market? I..." He didn't like being forced to say it, but he could swallow his pride this once: Irakli reminded himself what had sustained him through every lonely, pointless day back in Batumi. "I wanted to see you."

Merab's expression wasn't immediately what he'd hoped for. The corners of his eyes tightened a little and, if he'd had to pick a word, Irakli would have said he looked pained. "What are you doing back in Tbilisi?"

Defensiveness flushed like shame: he wanted to go away, to start this conversation all over again. This wasn't how it was meant to be. Irakli tasted the sharpness of the responses he might give. He thought about just walking away, but then he was terrified of himself for even imagining it. That thought led nowhere he could bear to look.

"I had to come back," he said at last. "I told you things were really bad back home - turns out I managed to make them worse."

Did he imagine the minute softening of Merab's expression? Irakli lowered his chin and looked up at Merab with contrition.

"What about your family?" The interrogatory tone had left Merab's voice. He still glanced around uneasily, still kept his arms as a barrier across his chest, but, Irakli thought with a thrill, he could imagine kissing those lips again now, now that they were no longer thin and sharp as a blade. Merab bit the bottom one as if to encourage this exact possibility.

Irakli blinked quickly, trying to focus on his eyes. "It's...complicated."

Merab drew breath to speak, but he was attuned to his father's voice in a way that Irakli was not, and he froze and glanced out along the muddy lane between stalls.

"There's a café over the river we can go to when I finish work. You should buy something first though - people notice everything here."

Irakli looked up at the items for sale again and said, woefully. "I spent my last cash on the bus."

Merab stared at him, and then he laughed, and the sound made Irakli's skin prickle, it made his eyes hurt, it made his chest ache.

He smiled back at Merab, not caring what was funny about the fact that he was broke, and then he laughed too, and the sound surprised him - it felt light and dangerous, it felt unfamiliar. It released something he'd been holding back. "I'm sorry…if you didn't want to see me...if I shouldn't have just turned up here…I can explain why I didn't get in touch."

The expression on Merab's face was one he'd missed intensely.

"I want to see you." He glanced aside then grabbed a handful of shiny washers from a box on the table between them. He threw them in a plastic bag and held it out. "I'll see you at the bus stop in half an hour."

With another incredulous laugh - he felt giddy, stupid, almost like he was drunk just from being near Merab - Irakli took the bag.

"Sure. See you at the bus stop." Irakli cast one last glance up at Merab, and let it mean everything he wanted it to mean, and was rewarded with Merab's astonished grin, which he hid poorly, ducking his head and fiddling with some grubby pieces of machinery on the counter.

Irakli could not have made the stains on his trainers worse on the walk back to the bus stop: he knew that he floated a few inches above the ground, his head rose above the acrid smells of the bazaar and he felt like time was rushing him along on the home stretch, towards the point he had hoped to reach for so long, though he hadn't known it. Waiting at the bus stop was such a small task after all the rest of it, he forgot even to smoke. He leaned, dazed, against the outer wall of the market, his bag of metallic rubbish held in both hands, his pulse going like a sprinter's.

Merab must have managed to get away early, because it could not have been half an hour's wait. He walked out of the market with his hands in the pockets of his green coat, his chin up, hair licked immaculately back from his forehead, cigarette lit and held between defiant lips.

Irakli nearly dropped his bag, surprised at his own immediate response to the sight.

Merab's smile curled around his cigarette and he walked over.

He stopped barely a pace away, and Irakli tightened his grip on the bag to stop himself from reaching out.

"Do you want a coffee then?"

Unsteadily, Irakli said, "Yeah." He didn't know how he'd afford it, but he'd have agreed to anything to stay in Merab's presence.

They walked shoulder to shoulder through the busy streets. Their hands touched as Merab passed him a cigarette with a familiar chuckle, and Irakli felt himself redden when Merab's eyes rested on him. It was a wonder they made it across the bridge without walking into traffic or a lamppost: Irakli stared at his feet and Merab stared at Irakli.

By the time they were sitting at a tiny table in a café in the university quarter, Irakli couldn't think of any of the things he'd meant to say. He looked at Merab and his mind went blank, all the memories from Batumi dissipated, like fog burned off by the sun, leaving just the two of them, sitting at an awkward distance, with too much weight in their surreptitious gazes.

He had to say something before the waitress came over and wondered what was up.

"I've got an audition next week at the National Ensemble."

"What?"

"Yeah, seeing Aleko's face is going to be funny..."

Merab looked at him strangely as the waitress arrived, and, despite dissembling, Irakli found himself in the position of having his coffee bought for him. Did that make it a date, he wondered?

"That's why you came back?" Merab was wearing one of his garishly bright hoodies, the sleeves drawn up over his palms, one finger extended to scrape at something on the table distractedly.

"Kind of. It pays better than the work I had in Batumi," Irakli said carefully. "It all happened pretty quickly actually."

Merab was studying him with a hungry expression and it made Irakli's skin prickle. He was going to say or do something stupid if he had to keep looking at that; he might as well control the stupid as best he could.

"I guess I don't have to worry about the competition this time..."

Merab's mouth curled. When he looked down, his eyelashes caught the colour from the street lights as they started to come on outside. "Yeah, but you'll have to dance kintouri with a second-rate partner."

"I can't believe you don't dance anymore." There it was: the stupid thing he'd been trying to avoid, and he heard the pain in his own voice.

But Merab scoffed. He reached out to take his coffee from the waitress and Irakli did the same, and when she'd gone, he saw Merab's lips toying with a smirk as he stirred sugar into his drink.

"Who said I don't dance anymore?"

"I...David said? I heard a little about the audition - what happened?"

Merab was so bad at hiding his smile, but Irakli didn't know what was funny, and he felt hollowed out as he waited for Merab to explain. "Do you want to hear about the audition?" Merab glanced up, teasingly, but pretended to be more interested in his coffee.

"Yeah - I want to hear about it!" Irakli's voice was indignant, louder than he'd intended.

Merab settled himself back on the hard café chair. "There's really not much to say. I danced how I wanted to dance. Beso didn't like it." He struggled to hold Irakli's gaze, and, as he described some of the routine he'd presented, Irakli realised he was holding something back. For one, he never said why he'd deliberately sabotaged his own chances. He made light of it - but there was more to what he’d described than the drive to playfully tweak the noses of those in charge.

Still, by the time Merab was miming curtseying to Aleko in Irakli's old chokha, Irakli was clutching his bruised body as he laughed along with him.

"I dance with a theatre group now." Merab watched Irakli's amusement with satisfaction. "They're Mary's friends. It's not the same, but it's nice, I guess, not to always be getting things wrong - we just do what we like."

Irakli smiled at him. It sounded nice.

"So how come you saw David already?" Merab steered the conversation on before Irakli could think of anything to say about the audition.

At least that was simple: his bus had been delayed. Irakli told him so, and he told him about turning up late at the flat where Merab used to live, and the good-natured chaos inside. This, strangely, seemed to make Merab even more uneasy than the subject of the National Ensemble.

"I'm going there for lunch tomorrow. I thought I should see you today in case you were going to be there."

Merab shook his head. "I don't go back often. I'll be at my dad's stall."

"You work there every day?"

"I need to save money." He was focussing on his coffee again, scraping the sides of the small cup with a spoon and sucking the bitter residue off it.

"Yeah," Irakli agreed, looking down at his own drink and wondering if he should feel guilty that Merab had bought it.

"I have a shift tonight at a friend's bar, too. If you wanted to come..."

Irakli hoped he could see how much he wanted to in the way he raised his eyes to Merab's. He shook his head. "I have to get back to my granny. I guess I should practise, too."

Merab nodded and twisted his lips in some expression that conveyed both regretful understanding and sympathy. "How are you getting there?"

Irakli looked out into the night and grimaced, imagining how cold the Tbilisi air would feel. "I'll walk."

"It's a long way."

He shrugged.

"I've got time to walk with you. If you want. The bar is in the centre of town - it's not far from your place."

Irakli wondered at what point an ostentatiously casual gesture became something achingly needy. He raised his brows and shrugged and checked there was no one nearby before he said, in a voice that only cracked a little, "Sure. If it's not out of your way."

As they walked, Irakli let some more of his story unravel. Some streets were dark and narrow enough that, though Irakli and Merab were totally sober, they could bump shoulders, arms, elbows, and not need to make it into a performance for the rest of the city.

He told Merab some of what had happened with Zinaida, thinking he was being subtle while Merab eagerly harvested every detail that hinted at the truth: that Irakli had thought about him non-stop since leaving. In turn, Merab explained enough for Irakli to understand why he could not be around his grandmother’s disappointment, and how crowded the little flat had become with David and Sopo moving in. It had hurt to leave his mother and grandmother behind, but he couldn't be at home anymore.

When Irakli looked over at him, and they were caught together beneath a flare of orange light, and he said, "Yeah. I know what that's like," he recognised something kindle in Merab's eyes.

They were halfway up the hill with the cemetery on it when Irakli stopped midway through his story of some crap wedding dance he'd done.

"Wait. Wasn't your bar back there?"

Hands in pockets, Merab half-turned. "Oh! Yeah, I guess. I don't need to be there for another couple of..." He checked his watch. "…Another hour."

Irakli's heart raced. "You want to come back for supper? It's not much, but Granny Rusudan might remember you..."

Merab's face lit up with his grin and Irakli felt like he'd taken another beating: they were so close, after months apart, just an arm's reach away in the quiet darkness of the cemetery. He wanted to close that space completely, permanently, to find the connection he'd been cut off from again and again at home.

Instead, he asked, cringing at the nervousness in his own voice, "You'll come?"

"Of course." Merab shouldered him playfully and started walking again, his face turned away towards the ground.


	37. Chapter 37

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If you're just here for smut, this is where the smut is. Though there will probably be more later.

Merab was standing awkwardly in the doorway as though waiting for something, and Irakli gestured impatiently. "Sit, sit - it's bad enough having to deal with Granny wandering all over the place - Granny, sit down, I know where the bowls are."

She was opening drawers and cupboards and Irakli took her shoulders and guided her across the small room to her seat. Chewing his lip with an amused smirk, Merab sat opposite her. "How are you, Granny Rusudan?"

"Look at you - what did you say your name was again?"

"Merab!" Irakli called from the counter.

The conversation followed her familiar, winding paths, and Irakli smiled as he listened to Merab try to keep up with her. She namechecked relatives and friends he did not know - some of them were even new to Irakli - and spoke of things that had happened thirty years ago as if they were yesterday.

Her memory was far from totally gone, but Irakli had noticed a decline since he had left. She did better with company.

"You know, you remind me of someone..."

"Granny, you met him before." Irakli shook his head at the bread as he sliced it. He went about the routine tasks of preparing things so that he did not have to think about what came next. He'd got Merab in his presence again at last, but time was not on his side and he would lose him again soon.

His discontent increased as he turned back to them and saw Merab texting under the table, keeping only half a distracted smile on Rusudan as she talked.

He'd mentioned Mary and her theatre friends, he'd mentioned a friend who ran the bar he worked at. He must have been texting one of them.

_Jesus_ , Irakli thought to himself with a jolt of panic. He was jealous of these people he'd just learned about, whose names he didn't even know. He'd been thinking about picking up exactly where they'd left off, or as near as possible to that - he wanted to forget the months in between. But what had Merab been doing in that time?

Irakli started to put things down on the table between Merab and his Granny and kept his eyes down on the task, suddenly worried all over again about what he was doing.

Rusudan finished her story and changed her topic to Irakli as he rearranged things to leave more space on the little table: "Such a good boy. He does so much for me."

Merab's attention left his phone immediately, and he smiled up at Irakli as soon as he heard her words.

Drawn by the feeling of his gaze on him, Irakli's eyes met Merab's, and he felt desire tug on him just as hard as fear.

"I just checked and they don't need me at the bar tonight," Merab said.

Irakli was glad he didn't have anything left in his hands he might have dropped. "Yeah?" He wiped his fingers on his jeans and stood back from the table, putting space between him and Merab. "That's cool," he said, almost steadily, and turned back to the counter to avoid reacting to the mischief in Merab's expression.

They ate, and Irakli's grandmother asked about their day, and Irakli sat very carefully, trying not to lean his leg against Merab's, because it would have been a provocation in addition to the background level of need he was feeling already.

"Eliava?" Rusudan exclaimed when Merab described his day. "But I used to go there. I had many friends there. I thought you said he danced?" She turned to Irakli.

"I said that last time you met him," Irakli said with good humoured exasperation, but she was already away, musing about the people she'd known when she went to Eliava on the metro with her shopping cart.

Merab wanted to help Irakli sort the dishes and clean them afterwards, and he wasn't much of a help, but nothing was broken and Irakli found that his face hurt from smiling and laughing like he hadn't done in months. Rusudan watched them with amusement and joked about having two handsome young men to work for her, saying they were more fun to watch than the TV.

"Ah, but you'll miss your programmes." Irakli tapped at his wrist and Rusudan switched the little set on with a girlish giggle.

The volume didn't go that high, but it was high enough to smother sounds in the apartment.

"Did you want to watch this?" Irakli asked Merab with mock seriousness. He received a wordless, laughing shake of the head in response. Irakli wasn't sure how he kept himself together enough to make their excuses - they were going to catch up in his room, did Rusudan need anything first?

She was emphatic that she did not, and Irakli followed Merab down the corridor and gestured him into the little bedroom.

Doing anything like what he had in mind there would have been unthinkable a few months ago. But Irakli was newly, recklessly ready to take whatever opportunities he could get. Having gone without Merab for so long, feeling like he'd suffered a punishment for what he had deliberately tried to leave behind...he'd been judged and condemned now; he might as well do what he'd been accused of.

He shut the bedroom door behind him and checked the curtains were covering its glass panels.

Merab had stepped ahead. He'd thrown his coat and hoodie onto the chair by the bed with familiar nonchalance.

Irakli stared at him thirstily. How did he close that space between them?

He stepped away from the bedroom door and willed Merab to turn and face him.

Merab was idling in the middle of his room like he had done before, searching for something to look at in lieu of Irakli.

"Your poster's gone," Merab murmured, his hands in his pockets, his tone light.

Irakli looked at the colours in the back of his hair and ran his eyes over Merab's body, the way his clothes hung artfully over his deceptively strong form.

He swallowed, feeling parched. "Yeah, my granny's not really into Messi."

Merab snorted and half-turned, his smile coy.

"She prefers Ronaldo." Irakli shrugged, his own hands in his pockets, excruciatingly aware of the effect that just looking at Merab, imagining being close to him again, was having. There was heat in his groin. He wasn't sure the floor beneath him was level. He felt giddy, stupid, brave and terrified all at once.

Merab laughed at his dumb joke. It sounded so carefree, so much happier than any sound Irakli could remember hearing or uttering in the last few months.

Irakli couldn't make himself wait any longer. He took two long steps across the floor and met Merab's body with his own, sliding one hand around the nape of Merab's neck and holding him close with the other. He kissed him, bending to do so, his heart hammering with all the urgency, all the nerves he remembered from those nights last summer.

As before, Merab was momentarily surprised by the sudden force of Irakli's attentions. His mouth was soft under Irakli's, his hair silken between his fingers, his body firm and real in a way that made a mockery of the memories Irakli had clung to. He tasted of bitter, cheap cigarettes and bitter, good coffee, his lips sweetened with the figs they'd just eaten and the mellow cheese. Irakli inhaled the smell of him, relishing every detail of touch.

Belatedly, Merab's fingers climbed Irakli's body, working up his chest, sliding over his collarbones to his neck. When they broke apart to breathe, Merab leaned his forehead against Irakli's and his smile brightened, a shy curve opening into a grin that made Irakli laugh dazedly. He looked like he wanted to say something, and his eyes sought Irakli's questioningly.

Irakli couldn't think of words right now - who knew what he'd come out with. His skin stung like he'd plunged into the sea with a sunburn, and all he could trust himself with was their two bodies: words were too big for him to collect together, but his mouth could tell Merab's mouth how much he'd thought of him, his lips on Merab's neck and chest and every supple and strong part of him could tell him how much Irakli wanted to be with him again.

He kissed the threat of speech from Merab's mouth: deep and insistent until Merab's hands tightened on him and made his bruises pinch. Irakli enveloped his waist and pulled Merab's hips against his and he was soon certain that Merab had forgotten whatever question he had been thinking of asking - for now, at least.

In his imagination, Merab had been a passive recipient of his affection, but now the form in Irakli's arms was impatient and restless, every kiss was matched, anticipated, eagerly returned. It made Irakli feverish with lust, desperate to enfold and absorb the energy in Merab's body. His hands were in Merab's hair; Merab's palms smoothed over Irakli's cheeks, his fingers raked against Irakli's scalp. Irakli reached down with one hand to work at Merab's belt and trouser fastenings, and Merab's grip moved to the hem of Irakli's shirt, pulling the material up, pulling Irakli closer to him.

Irakli let out a small sound with his breath against Merab's mouth, and he felt the smile that resulted from it. The belt was taking too long to loosen and Irakli moved his hands and slid them up under Merab's own top. He was indecisive, overcome with the wild need to get all of Merab's clothes off at once, to touch every part of him, to refresh the memories that he had hoarded over the months apart. Under his palms, Merab's lithe, muscled back moved like waves rolling in as he pressed himself against Irakli.

He didn't say anything, but every kiss, every agitated breath he was forced to stop and take, was meant to tell Merab: _I missed you_. Irakli finally forced himself away for long enough to pull his t-shirt up over his head, and Merab did the same.

The moment where skin touched skin again sent a jolt right through Irakli's body. He encircled Merab's waist with his arms, clinching him tight so that, navel to nipple, there was no air between them.

Unsatisfied with the height difference, Merab pushed up against him, rising to the balls of his feet, pressing up into the kiss, holding onto Irakli's neck, his shoulder, so it felt almost as though he was about to scale him. Irakli imagined Merab's strong thighs gripped tight around his hips and gasped again at the thought. With greater determination than before, he yanked at Merab's belt and successfully loosened the buckle - Merab laughed, the sound breathy and surprised, hot against Irakli's lips - and Irakli undid his trousers forcefully and slid his hand inside, down the rumpled front of Merab's underwear.

Both moaned, and Irakli could not stifle a curse, spoken like a prayer into the skin of Merab's neck, where it was rough with stubble, just beneath the sharp line of his jaw. He felt Merab's pulse beneath his mouth and he followed it down with his kisses before moving across to Merab's collarbone, his hand flexing and stroking all the while against thin cotton of his underwear and the hot pressure on the other side of the fabric.

In an almost seamless movement, Irakli took Merab's waistbands in his hands and pulled his clothes down as he himself sank to his knees on their discarded t-shirts. He ran his hands back up Merab's legs and leaned his forehead against Merab's thigh, savouring the taste of anticipation and waiting for Merab's touch to catch up with him. As Irakli hooked his fingers mercilessly in the tightness of Merab's hamstrings, Merab's hands smoothed over his hair, and Irakli felt his stance shift expectantly, his weight rolling forwards, hips first.

Irakli ran his tongue over his lips, picking up the taste of the strong coffee they'd had earlier. He wrapped his hand around Merab's erection and began to jerk it with steady, certain strokes. Irakli stretched up on his knees and ran his teeth over the protrusion of Merab's hip before pressing his mouth to the softer flesh adjacent, tasting his skin like he would sample ripe fruit, not wanting to lose a drop of flavour. He felt, rather than heard, Merab's groan, and shifted his kisses to the base of his cock, pushing his tongue against his balls and up along the shaft, letting the movements of his hand give way to his mouth.

Irakli remembered the first time it had occurred to him that he wanted Merab's cock in his mouth, as they had jerked each other off behind the kvevri, and he had buried his face against Merab's shoulder, longing also to kiss him, but not able to admit to it. He'd been taunted by that tattoo for long enough already: its blank, smiling face had always drawn Irakli's gaze to Merab's waistband in the studio changing room. And Merab fluctuated habitually between a deadly seriousness that Irakli wanted to cajole away with sweetness and laughter, and a radiance that left him awestruck, wanting to leave holy offerings all over Merab's body.

With all of his regret for lost time behind his movements, Irakli ran his tensed tongue up the underside of Merab's cock and sucked at the head, reminding himself of the strange taste, the hidden textures, the things he could do to make Merab's fingers tighten against his scalp.

As he settled into a rhythm, Irakli tilted his head and opened his eyes, searching Merab's expression.

Merab's mouth opened as Irakli watched him, though his eyes were closed and his head was thrown back. An impatient whimper fell hard from Merab's lips and he bit them afterwards, a frown momentarily creasing his serene features. Irakli flushed at the sound, at Merab's response, at the look of him from that angle, his whole body curved like a parenthesis towards Irakli's mouth, which was the pivot on which he turned.

Irakli tightened the hand that gripped Merab's arse and concentrated on drawing as much of his length inside him as possible. Merab swore, and the satisfied chuckle that was no more than a vibration in Irakli's throat made him curse again. Irakli pushed against Merab with his tongue until the muscle ached and Merab's grip felt bruising against his scalp.

Irakli pulled back, leaning his head into Merab's hands, raising his eyes as his mouth lingered.

Merab was staring down at him now, breathing hard, hunger and fascination in his eyes. He finally kicked one foot free of the tangle of his jeans and slid through Irakli's hands like water, dropping to his own knees so they were eye to eye.

Merab kissed him, not shy about the taste of himself on Irakli's lips and tongue. He cupped his hands around Irakli's face to hold him close, and Irakli ran a wondering, grateful touch up over Merab's biceps, his shoulders, his neck. Their kisses turned fierce again quickly as Merab pressed his body up against Irakli's, as he adjusted his position, looking for a height advantage so he could lean down into their kisses.

Irakli didn't mind - he loved to look up at Merab - and as Merab shifted to one knee, locking his raised leg against Irakli's body, Irakli smoothed his hand along Merab's thigh and squeezed it, just as he had done all that time ago when he had corrected Merab's posture in the empty studio.

The cross at the end of Merab's necklace tickled the skin of his throat and chest, and the chain knocked teasingly against Irakli's chin. He held handfuls of Merab's body, his palms smoothing where his nails had raked over taut flesh and muscle. Irakli's hands were greedy, never satisfied with enclosing only a piece of Merab in each instant - he wanted to touch him everywhere, all the time.

They both went for Irakli's jeans at the same moment and laughed together, their fingers tangling, Merab's touch deliberately playful against the sensitive skin of Irakli's belly.

He could barely whisper, giggling, "Stop that; it really tickles!" Merab bit his lip and kissed him between every other word, though it meant progress on the jeans was slow.

"I didn't know you were ticklish..."

Merab slid his hands down the back of Irakli's loosened trousers at last, grasping his arse and pulling him up into their kisses. He shoved the heavy denim away and, more slowly, like he was savouring it - not nervous at all - Merab lowered his hand behind the waistband of Irakli's underwear and massaged his erection. He had Irakli pinned: his trousers were like a bond around his knees and one of Merab's hands was a weight on his shoulder, keeping Irakli beneath him as Merab leaned down to kiss him, as his other hand taunted him with steady, lingering touches.

Irakli didn't want to notice his knees beginning to burn with discomfort - there were so many other things he wanted to focus on - but it was starting to distract from the rest. The floor of his bedroom was hard and cold and the recollection that this was _his bedroom_ brought a furious determination back to his kisses. He held Merab's ribcage firmly in both hands as he pushed him away in order to look him in the eye.

"The bed," was all Irakli said, and he saw the glint of desire in Merab's smile, a perfect match to his own.

The moment teetered on an edge when Merab looked down over Irakli's body and frowned at what he'd been too preoccupied to notice before.

"What's this?" he murmured, his fingers stretching out over the mottled landscape of bruises, flurries of red and purple that crossed Irakli's ribcage. Merab's touch pushed dark hairs aside, gentle but insistent in its enquiry.

When Irakli saw the protective flash of fear in his expression he felt more winded than he had been by the attack itself. He moved Merab's hand away to his hip, his thumb soft against Merab's palm.

"It's nothing. It doesn't matter," Irakli told him, tilting his head to kiss Merab again, lingering to reassure, running his touch over Merab's arms and shoulders, cajoling him, reminding him that there were better things to pay attention to.

Finally, Merab's hold on Irakli's waist lost its cautiousness, its reluctance to cause discomfort, and his kisses seemed, to Irakli, to offer fierce healing, a promise that he hated whoever had done this. Grateful, elated by the simple knowledge that he wasn't alone anymore, Irakli moved away, gasping, and repeated, " _The bed._ "

He still had to go through the indignity of freeing himself from his jeans, dropping back onto his arse to tug them away. He watched Merab stand and balance perfectly as he pulled his second leg free of his own trousers. Merab smiled at Irakli's expression and turned it into a pose, one knee raised, one foot pressed flat against the inside of his own thigh.

Irakli scrambled to pull his clothes away and to stand so that he could be the one to get his arms around Merab's waist, to tumble that gorgeous, powerful form down onto his mattress. He was above Merab when they landed, his lips and teeth against Merab's neck and chest, his erection pressed between their bodies, hot and dry and impatient.

Irakli had been dreaming of everything they'd done at the summerhouse. He didn't imagine doing anything different in his eagerness to relive it, he was not thinking of any new ways of touching, he just wanted to experience that elation again. He had Merab beneath him, his hands in Merab’s hair as he arched against the mattress, exposing the curve of his neck, the tempting outline of his Adam's apple. Irakli kissed it messily and felt the vibrations of Merab's delighted laughter in his mouth. It made him more frantic than ever, and he reached down to push Merab's thigh aside, to guide his cock home.

"Mm, wait, I have..." Merab didn't make any move to stop Irakli, and he trailed off when he met his gaze, but there was a question, or something Irakli could not identify, behind his wide, hazel eyes.

"What?" Irakli asked as gently as he could. He nuzzled Merab's jaw and closed his eyes, trying to repress what felt like a full body shiver of anticipation.

Merab did not answer for a moment, and Irakli did not want to check on his expression, suddenly fearful of seeing hesitation or regret there. Merab shifted and steered Irakli's body aside to sit up. He shuffled to the edge of the bed and reached for his jeans, and Irakli watched his back, bemused, his thoughts muddled by lust, worry battling to rise through the haze of happiness he had been submerged in.

"What are you doing?"

"It's better, really," Merab said by way of explanation. He dropped his jeans to the floor again and turned back to Irakli with a look of shy determination and something shiny and metallic clasped in his hand.

Merab came to Irakli on all fours and looked over the bruises on his body again but he didn't ask. His fingers traced their outline gently and he leaned in to kiss him until Irakli relaxed back down against the mattress, Merab above him, one of Merab's hands working to reassure him, moving quick and rough like Irakli had wanted the first time outside the summerhouse.

Irakli groaned and decided that it wasn't worth overthinking any of it - he let Merab roll the condom over his cock and smooth lube from the other sachet over the top.

He reached his fingers up between Merab’s legs and stroked and pressed at his arsehole, though concentrating on kissing Merab at the same time left him dazed. Merab was hard too, as eager as Irakli was, and Irakli’s exploratory touches met with little tension.

Merab straddled Irakli and positioned himself. He let Irakli draw him near and turn their bodies so Merab was between him and the wall and, though he tried to begin carefully, Irakli soon thrust inside him with sudden, unlooked for ease.

Merab bit his shoulder - hard enough to mark, Irakli thought - and Irakli shushed him and murmured an apology, before they found a position that was more comfortable and began to move together. Merab was already nuzzling the spot he had bitten, his face buried against Irakli's collarbone and neck as he manoeuvred his body as close to Irakli's as possible, one leg tight over Irakli's hip, flexing himself in time with Irakli's thrusts, held near to him by Irakli's arm hooked across his shoulders.

Irakli dipped his face to find Merab's, to kiss him breathlessly. Merab held onto him like Irakli was the only thing keeping him tethered to the earth, and Irakli gripped him with the same determination. Beneath them, the sheets ruched and twisted, and the carpet pinned to the wall emitted little clouds of dust every time Merab's body was buffeted against it.

Irakli pulled him near so that they rolled into the centre of the bed, Merab above, using his bodyweight as Irakli simultaneously bucked his hips up. Irakli's fingers tightened on his flesh; the sound he made was swallowed up entirely in their kisses. There were no rocks or leaves sticking to his back, he wasn't trying to negotiate his way around seat belt fastenings or a car roof: there was just Merab's body and his, both cradled by the soft mattress, in sync like when they had danced together, matching gesture to gesture.

Irakli's grip was insistent: he held Merab as close to him as he could so he could feel every movement, every muscle against his own. It wasn't quite as frantic as that first time behind the kvevri, but now and again the bed frame creaked or Merab's knee knocked the wall and Irakli remembered the third person in the apartment. He would break from their kisses and hold Merab tightly to him for a breath, ensuring that there was no sound of movement in the corridor, that the TV still chattered on in the kitchen.

Each time, turning his attention back to Merab was like staring up at the sun. He couldn't quite believe the reality of the body in his arms, the readiness with which Merab bowed to kiss him again, flexing his hips and thighs as he did so. _This_ \- Irakli thought, over and over - _this is what I wanted. What I want_. The discomfort he felt when Merab's bodyweight disturbed the bruises on his torso, or when his scraped shin caught against the rug on the wall, was nothing to the bliss of having Merab in his own bed.

Irakli did not need long before he was ready, and he came with a shudder and a jolt of his hips that made Merab close his eyes and bite his own lip, his body arched above Irakli's.

Still feeling the ripples of it, Irakli batted Merab's hand away from his own cock and took it in his hand. He rocked his hips, drawing out his own pleasure even as his fist pumped hard around Merab's cock.

Merab was straddling him, his eyes screwed shut and his bottom lip folded under his teeth, and Irakli thought he was even more beautiful than he had remembered. It hadn't been the light at the summerhouse: it had been Merab himself, and the honeyed tones of his skin.

When Merab came, Irakli did not mind the thick, wet heat that spilled over his hand and wrist, that touched each of their bodies. He ran the palm of his free hand up along Merab's thigh, pushing his fingers through wiry auburn hair. Breathing heavily, though a hungry kind of composure had returned to his features, Merab let one hand find Irakli's and pressed Irakli's grip tight to his leg.

They curved at the same time to meet each other in a kiss, and Irakli wiped his other fingers on the sheet distractedly. Quickly, silently, they cleaned themselves up and, as he did so, Irakli thought only, with anticipation, of holding Merab in his arms afterwards.

Merab let out a soft laugh and buried his smile against Irakli's body as he was pulled down to the mattress again. He squirmed against Irakli, trying to get as close as possible in his embrace. He threw one leg over Irakli's hip once more and wrapped his arms around Irakli's back, and Irakli hid his own face in the perfect hollow of Merab's shoulder.

There was no reason to let go of Merab now, and Irakli did not want to. They stretched out, tangled in each other's limbs. Merab's restlessness had finally settled into contentment, his energy concentrated in the deep, easy breaths Irakli could feel in exhalations against his neck, in the slight movement of Merab's ribcage. Irakli nuzzled his jaw against the cloud of Merab's disturbed hair, smelling his shampoo and his sweat, lulling himself as well as Merab by smoothing his touch along the skin of Merab's back.

He thought Merab might have slipped quietly to sleep, and he was contenting himself with the fact that his bedroom light would just have to stay on, because he would not disturb Merab in order to reach the switch, when Merab raised his head.

He looked at Irakli with sleepy earnestness and kissed him - almost experimentally, as if he had not been doing so since they had been alone.

"I thought I'd never see you again," he said, and Irakli recognised the tone so well.

He said nothing, but his smile was sad. Irakli ran his fingers back through Merab's hair and kissed him in return, but he did not need to speak the reply that loomed, unacknowledged, between them.

He hadn't meant to see him again. He should have been happily married by now - memories of Merab discarded without guilt or regret. How the fuck could Irakli tell him that despite his intention to forget him, Merab had been a constant presence in his thoughts, a part of his life that had proved, eventually, impossible to hide? Irakli didn't want to think about those long, hopeless months when he had been driven further inside himself, further away from the people he had gone home to support. He didn't want to think about the way his life should have been going, not at the moment when he was finally where he wanted to be. He didn't want to think about the fact that all it had taken to get there was hurting everyone he cared about back home, one by one.

Merab reached out to Irakli's face, determined to make a point that he had not been able to make before. Irakli closed his eyes as the pads of Merab's fingers brushed over one cheekbone, tracing the jagged scar beneath his eye socket. He was not used to being admired in this way: Merab looked at him with open fascination, reverence almost, and yet somehow there was an innocence in his curiosity. It made Irakli feel raw, exposed and vulnerable beneath Merab's gaze and his touch.

He felt his pulse quicken as Merab's hand moved to investigate the fresher injuries on his face.

"It's the same as your other bruises?" Merab murmured.

Irakli nodded his head a little and made himself meet Merab's eyes. He didn't want to relive that. He didn't want Merab to feel that he had, in any way, been responsible for it. But when Irakli looked at him, it felt like a weight settled in his chest, like a solid fist was clenched around his heart. "The same accident at work," he murmured.

Merab moved his chin in acknowledgement, as though what Irakli meant was perfectly clear. He would not stop looking, and Irakli felt like wherever Merab looked he would reveal parts of Irakli that he even he had not known about.

"You can stay, you know," Irakli said, ashamed of using it to distract from Merab's care - but not so ashamed that he didn't offer it anyway. "We'll just say to Granny you fell asleep in the chair."

Merab's wandering hand faltered for a moment against Irakli's cheek, and then opened so that his palm cupped Irakli's jaw as Merab leaned in to kiss him.

Irakli still felt somewhat separate from his thoughts when Merab asked, "Granny Rusudan doesn't often forget this isn't her room does she?"

Irakli frowned. "It's never happened before..." He didn't want to let go of Merab in order to put the latch on the door, but it was probably safest to do so. He hadn't even thought of it before, and he was surprised, again, at how reckless Merab made him.

He reluctantly disentangled himself from Merab's limbs and got up to put the latch on. For a moment he looked down at his own bed, at the man on his sheets, curled on his side, facing Irakli with an expression full of intensities, his body something that Irakli felt, despite his efforts, he'd only barely begun to explore.

"What?" said Merab.

Irakli laughed. He couldn't do anything else. He was standing butt naked, an expression of pure longing exposed on his face, too powerful to be hidden. "Nothing! It's nice to be in a bed, right?" he said softly.

Merab shifted over to give him space and propped his head up on an elbow. "Nicer when you're in the bed too..." He smirked.

"Oh, hm, yeah - was that meant to be smooth?" Irakli lay down facing him again.

Merab grinned and pecked a kiss on his lips that was just sweet and silly and unthinking in a way that made Irakli's bruised chest ache severely.

"Did it work?"

It was an opportunity to slide his hand to the nape of Merab's neck again, to feel the chain of his necklace and the soft downy hair at the back of his head as Irakli kissed him - less chastely, less unthinkingly.

He shook his head as he pulled back. "Didn't need to. You're in my bed. I was coming back anyway."

The response delighted Merab enough that Irakli didn't need to do any more talking after that. Dimly, he thought that he should be getting a good night's sleep so that he could practice effectively before the audition next week. That was something he'd worry about tomorrow, though. For now, he thought he'd never want to sleep again.


	38. Chapter 38

In the end, it wasn't so hard to sleep. His body was warm, but not as warm as Merab's; they'd found ways to tire themselves out until the sheets clung to their sweaty skin and Irakli had to summon all his willpower just to reach up and switch the light off. Merab fitted neatly in a bed that had oftentimes seemed too small when Irakli was alone in it; he burrowed his face against Irakli's shoulder and chest and tangled his legs between Irakli's.

Irakli held him with a smile on his face at the thought that now they'd got the hang of coming together, they'd fall asleep together too.

Irakli was cold when he woke, and the light was on. He rolled over and blinked sleepily.

Merab was standing beside the bed, half-dressed already, doing up the belt Irakli had worked so hard to undo last night. Irakli's gaze ran over the curve of his back, down to meet the mocking expression of the tattoo that peered above the waistband of Merab's clothes.

"I have to get to work." Merab saw Irakli watching him and offered a one-shouldered shrug and a rueful smile.

Irakli moved to sit on the edge of the bed and rubbed his face. He spoke before he could wake up fully and overthink his words. "Do you want breakfast?"

He looked up, waiting for an answer, and was caught off-guard by the sparkle in Merab's eyes.

"Sure." His voice was casual, but he was doing a bad job of hiding his grin. Merab dived into his t-shirt and Irakli forgot himself, staring up at him with a dazed and wondering smile.

He remembered that he'd have to get up too, and when he dressed he knew that Merab was trying to be subtle about watching him. Irakli did his best to pretend that he didn't notice - that Merab's gaze didn't make the hairs on his body stand up wherever it roved. He put his hand on the door and paused, turning to see that Merab had already come close to him.

Irakli didn’t bother hesitating: he had gone long enough without being able to kiss Merab that he knew he wanted to make the most of it while he could. Merab was no longer surprised by Irakli's unpredictable, fierce displays of affection, and his hands slid up to Irakli's neck and jaw. The kiss was as deep and messy as any they had shared the night before, and it made Irakli want to hurl their bodies back onto the mattress.

"Shall I meet you after work again?" he asked - what else, he reasoned, was he going to do with his evenings?

Merab kissed him before answering, fully aware of the effect he was having as he jammed Irakli's hips between his and the door. "I really can't miss another shift at the bar," he finally said.

"I thought you said they didn't need you last night?"

Caught out, Merab laughed, leaning up against Irakli. "I said I was sick."

It took a moment for Irakli to understand this information: Merab had lied so that he could stay here, with Irakli. He'd said he was saving money, but he'd blown off a shift. To stay here. With Irakli.

Maybe the idea of just picking up where they'd been before wasn't so outrageous after all - if only he knew where it was meant to lead. Irakli pushed these annoying practicalities from his mind and kissed Merab, until Merab had to step back and insist on going to work.

"You could come to the bar - after the audition?" He picked up his hoodie and slipped it on, tidying his hair in the mirror. "I don't work so many hours during the week, and it's a fun night."

Irakli watched him, admiring the precision of his movements as he stroked the unruly auburn waves back, simultaneously imagining messing them up again with his own hands. "Yeah, maybe."

Merab turned and shrugged his jacket on. "I probably don't have time for breakfast - but it's ok, I'm not hungry. I'll text you."

"Ah, wait." Irakli caught him by the door again. "My phone's broken."

Merab waited with an awkward smirk as Irakli rushed around the small apartment looking for a working pen and a blank piece of paper. His granny slept peacefully on the couch, tucked beneath woven blankets and abundant sheets.

Merab wrote the address of the bar down and bit his lip as their touch lingered when he passed the paper back to Irakli. Then he was gone, hurrying down the stairs and out of the building with an irrepressible smile on his face.

Irakli sat heavily at the kitchen table and stared at the paper. Where did he think this was going? He'd told himself it was impossible - he didn't want to go through what had happened in Batumi all over again, in a bigger, stranger city this time. But he thought about the alternative and couldn't imagine himself in that picture. He knew how lonely it was, and his senses were still buzzing with the result of choosing what he wanted instead - his thumb ran over the indents of Merab's writing in the thin paper, and, when he dipped his chin, he could smell Merab on his clothes.

He'd never been good at thinking long-term: zigging and zagging between what his parents expected, what his friends expected, and what everyone else thought he should be doing, in the hope that eventually he'd end up somewhere he could be contented. Now contentment seemed only a modest hope: he was starting to understand that better things existed, but to pursue them would always be a struggle. Merab made him reckless, but he also made him bold. He left the kitchen with rare decisiveness, carefully stashed the paper in his cupboard, and stretched to begin his practice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In effect, this is the end of Part I. Part II will be set mostly in Tbilisi and be mostly about Irakli working out how to be with Merab and dealing - or not - with what happened to him in Batumi. Updates will continue in sporadic chunks! Thank you so so much to all who read and leave kudos and comments, I'm just delighted if any of this resonates with anyone else at all <3


	39. Chapter 39

Fitting five people into the space opposite the kitchen counter, where the tiny table huddled against the wall, was no mean feat. Irakli and David stood, as did Grandma Nona, while Sopo and Inga Deyda sat at the table, plates on their knees because there was no room for them between the serving dishes.

Sopo and Nona had outdone themselves, once Nona had accepted that Sopo wouldn’t ruin everything she touched, or add strange Armenian seasonings when Nona turned her back. Inga Deyda was having a good morning and she stayed out of the way, a mug of fruit tea cradled between her hands. When Irakli arrived, she had been smiling indulgently at David as he kissed his wife’s sweaty hairline. Sopo had tried to blow a sticky curl off her forehead, holding flour-coated hands aside, and David reached out to brush the strand of hair away for her.

For Irakli, it was strange to be among so much chatter - mostly amicable, occasionally caustic - such an atmosphere of domesticity and love. It made him miss his mother, but he still let himself enjoy the chaotic noise and he laughed easily and charmed Nona in the effortless way he was accustomed to doing.

She had done a beautiful job of repairing and caring for David's dancing things and she gave them to Irakli with a pointed speech about how glad she was that they would be used, how happy it made her that some boys still saw the value of traditional dance.

David rolled his eyes behind her back but Irakli thanked her smoothly. Nona gestured as though the work had been nothing, but she turned coy at Irakli's grin and promised that he would always be welcome there. This just made David roll his eyes again, but he seconded what she said: “He already knew that granny...”

The topic of dance had evidently watered some seed of resentment, however, and it grew in the invisible way such things did. They finished what was on their plates in contentment – Nona mentioned things she would cook for New Year’s and Christmas, and Sopo shyly added some suggestions that, once elaborated upon, met with grudging approval. David told Irakli about the Christmas performance the main ensemble gave each year, and they speculated on how much headway Vakhtang would have made in the troupe since his audition.

But when there was a pause in the conversation, Inga Deyda shook her head and gestured at the bag by Irakli’s feet. She turned to David: "I don't think you should have given up so easily. Merab would never have quit if he hadn't seen you do it first."

"Believe me, Mum, that's not why he quit." David shook his head. His mouth was full, and he tried to shut down his mother’s complaints quickly.

Irakli met Sopo's eyes and he saw that she shared his unease at this change in the tone.

"Such a waste," Nona joined in, and bemoaned her grandsons' fates. "All those years paying for lessons, all that hard work."

"Akh, Granny, it was never what I wanted to do." David scowled.

"No, but your brother always wanted to! I don't understand what changed."

Irakli leaned against the wall, hoping it looked nonchalant while really he wished he could simply disappear into the plaster. He picked at the food left on his plate and didn't look up as the conversation continued. Inga Deyda chipped in with worry for how her youngest son was coping out there on his own, Nona switched to eager criticism of Ioseb and his influence - Inga Deyda sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose - David tried to diffuse things by saying Merab would never have got far at the National anyway, that he needed to find his own way. Nona said he was wrong and lectured him on what used to be valued in Georgian dance, David said she was out of touch, and Inga Deyda shook her head and complained she had a headache.

They all cared, but none of them understood, not really, Irakli thought.

"You know, David, you should go and see him," Inga Deyda said finally.

David reacted like she'd threatened him with a knife. "What? No way. I told you I don't want to see that fucking - "

"Not your father, go and see Merab, talk to him, tell him we miss him and want to see him more," his mother cajoled him impatiently.

David scoffed. "If I want to see him I have to see Dad, don't I? Besides, I've told you, he's told you: he works all day and most evenings. He's saving up."

"For what?" Nona exclaimed. "Does he have a new girlfriend?"

David visibly put the lid back on his anger and sighed. "I don't think so, no."

"Mary was such a good girl," Inga Deyda said sadly, and her mother made a sound of assent.

Irakli supposed Sopo must have seen the look of desperate discomfort on his features. She stood a bit too quickly and knocked the table with her leg. Bowls and spoons clattered and brought the conversation to a halt.

"Well, I'm going to start clearing these things over to the side. Maybe the men could go for a smoke outside and give us some space to tidy up?"

"It's cold; why can't I smoke in here?" David objected. He looked at Sopo's disbelieving expression for a moment and then blinked and reached for his gilet. "Come on, Irakli."

Aurora was by her window, which was open despite the temperature, so David led Irakli down from the balcony to the courtyard, where they could speak more freely out of earshot.

"Sorry about that," David muttered around his cigarette. "They were actually being civil for you. It can get a lot worse."

"It's fine," Irakli answered mechanically.

David stuffed his hands in his pockets and frowned as he decided what to say. Eventually he spoke, squinting up at the bright winter sky. "I told him he needs to get out of the country. I think that's what he's saving for."

Irakli coughed on his cigarette. The meaning of David's words seemed to seep through him like blood from a fresh wound, and he tried to readjust his expectations around it.

"You know, it's not safe for him here," David continued. "He needs to go to Europe or somewhere. Wait, I guess I should be telling you to do the same, but you seem better at...well you're not really like him, are you?"

How did he answer that? Irakli stared at the ground intently. "I guess not," he muttered, because it was what David wanted to hear.

"So, did you go to Eliava?" David asked.

Irakli nodded uneasily. "Yeah, I saw him yesterday."

"I don't know how he puts up with it, day in, day out. Ioseb, all the old fossils that work there...it's the dumbest place he could be. If those guys selling car parts found out about him... I mean - Merab, doing work like that?"

Irakli felt as though he was listening to his own response at a distance. "He keeps busy. He seems to have other friends, anyway. He didn't seem unhappy."

David's breath hissed between his teeth. "That's what I mean - spending his nights with those freaks and going to Eliava every day? I keep thinking I'm going to get a call one day and..."

Irakli felt sick as David trailed off.

"Sorry, sorry, not freaks. I just - I worry about him, you know?"

He didn't trust himself to speak, so he nodded again and drew on his cigarette, hoping to settle his stomach, hoping to calm his breathing once more.

David either didn't notice or chose not to notice. He slapped Irakli's shoulder and turned brusquely to look up at the flat. "Come on, there'll be coffee ready by now."

Irakli followed him back inside and thought how understandable it was that Merab preferred to avoid going back there these days.


	40. Chapter 40

It felt so good to be back in the familiar clothing, in the familiar setting, that Irakli forgot any performance nerves he ought to have felt, given what was riding on this audition. Indeed, he managed not to take too much pleasure in Aleko's expression when he walked in at Shota's call. He'd even left his earring in the changing room: he was determined to be on his best behaviour. Here there was no audience of his peers to play up to, just Aleko and Beso, and Beso did not immediately seem to recognise him. Irakli spared a smile of greeting for the musicians, and then drew himself up into his starting pose and waited for the familiar beats to call him in.

He was rusty and he knew it, and he berated himself at every little error - a slow hand here, a trailing foot or uneven angle there. He felt the vibrations from every landing in his bruised chest and he fought tiredness in his arms before the routine was up - but despite the critical view he took of himself, he knew it wasn't a disaster. He was still better than most, and he disguised his weaknesses well through his scrupulously good form.

At the end, Irakli paused at the low part of his bow, feeling his heart hammering beneath his hand. He did not know what he would see when he looked up at his judges.

"Stand up, stand up," Beso said pleasantly.

Irakli did so and hazarded a grin at them.

Aleko had unfolded his arms by the end of the routine. His frown was deep and he tugged thoughtfully on his beard. Beso nodded appreciatively, sitting forwards with his hands on his knees.

"Aren't you the Adjarian boy I auditioned last summer?" Beso asked.

"Yes sir." Irakli tried not to fidget. Aleko was watching him with narrowed eyes.

"But you got your place in the youth ensemble. You are very good." Beso gestured to Irakli.

Before he could reply, Aleko leaned over and said something to Beso. Beso murmured back in surprise and Irakli held his tongue between his teeth and made himself wait until he was addressed before speaking.

"Why did you leave and miss your audition for the main ensemble?"

Irakli stood up tall and knotted his fingers together behind his back. "My father was ill, sir. I was needed at home."

Beso's brows raised and he blinked slowly. "And what now? How is your father? Are you no longer needed?"

Aleko continued to stare at Irakli, hawk-like, leaning back in his chair with that inscrutable scowl of his.

"I...realised I could be more help here," Irakli said carefully. "To my parents, that is. Work isn't so reliable in Batumi."

"I thought there had been a construction boom..." Beso mused, in the way of old men who liked to invite contradiction so they could slap it down.

Irakli offered a bashful shrug. "It turns out I'm not really suited to that work."

Aleko had evidently run out of patience with whatever Beso's interests in the conversation were. He shook his head and leaned forwards. "You are good, as Beso says. But we need discipline here. We need dancers who won't...up and leave, the minute they have a problem."

Beso raised a hand to silence Aleko. "It is important to be loyal to your family, boy. That is the most important thing in life. But you must also treat this place with respect: we cannot hold a door open for you to come and go as you please."

"No, sir." Irakli stood very still, and wondered whether the panicked appeal in his eyes would have any traction with Aleko. "I'd like to stay for good this time."

Beso turned to look at Aleko and Irakli flushed when he overheard his words. "It really is a pity he missed the audition; I think he's better..."

Aleko's expression did not soften. "My troupe is depleted. I'll take boys I can train up rather than more chaos!"

Irakli didn't hear Beso's reply. He ran through what else he might do if they rejected him. He resented having been reminded how much he enjoyed to dance, only for the opportunity to be snatched from him once more.

"We'll get back to you," Aleko said. "I want to see the quality of the other dancers. I want you to think about your commitment to this ensemble. Give your details to Ketie before you leave - we'll see if this Shota boy turns up later..."

Irakli opened his mouth to apologise on Shota's behalf, but then he saw Aleko's face and limited himself to a curt nod.

As he filled in his contact details, he recalled, yet again, that his phone was unusable. He would have to put down the phone number for Rusudan's apartment.

Irakli swore as he lit up his cigarette and left the building: he would have to wait at the apartment until he got the call back. And he had no way of explaining this to Merab - by the time he got to Eliava it would be closed, and if he detoured through the centre to find Merab at the bar, he risked missing Aleko's call.

He knew his granny would want to help him, but he couldn't trust her to handle a call like that. It would be setting himself up to fail Aleko's first requirement.

He walked home in a dark mood and sat with Rusudan at the kitchen table, smoking and watching inane TV shows. He tried not to imagine Merab waiting for him, but he didn't want to think that Merab _hadn't_ been waiting for him.

It was past the end of the last classes at the ensemble, and the studio building would be closed for the day, and still there was no call.

Irakli's hand formed a fist under the table and he supposed Aleko was testing his interest. He thought about phoning Merab from the landline, but worried that Aleko would call when the line was engaged. Still, when it was late, he plugged in his phone after having let the battery expire over a week ago. It buzzed and the cracked screen lit up as it came on, but it didn’t respond to his touch. He hammered away at the corner displaying the contacts icon until his thumb was sore, but he got nothing in return. He reminded himself to get Merab's number again, and to learn it by heart this time.

Other messages he'd missed began to come in and Irakli shuddered at their half-displayed content. He switched the phone back off and threw it under the bed.

That night, he rolled himself tight in the sheets that smelled of him and Merab, and tormented himself with thoughts of failing to find any work in Tbilisi, of going home to his mother and Zinaida to beg for whatever forgiveness they would grant.

He dreamed of the time Aleko had swapped him into the Adjaruli, and in his dreams Merab watched from the side of the studio, his arms folded and his expression furious, but every time Irakli tried to meet his eyes, he found he'd been confused by the dance and Merab was standing somewhere else in the room, alone and impossible to reach. The dance ended and Irakli went to him, an apology on his lips, but Merab had already gone - Zinaida ran up to him and hugged him instead. He dreamed he was sitting alone behind a kvevri in a scrubby bit of woodland, smoking and waiting for someone who never came.


	41. Chapter 41

The next morning, he practised in his room, but it was desultory and perfunctory. Even Rusudan sensed that she should not attempt idle chatter with him at breakfast. Afterwards, Irakli fumed at the empty cupboards and decided he would rather go down to the studio and ask in person than be kept waiting any longer, trapped in his own home.

The phone rang, finally, as he shrugged his jacket on.

Irakli grabbed it before Rusudan could get to it. "Hello?"

The silence on the other end indicated that it was not Aleko. "Hello?" he repeated. "It's Rusudan's place; this is her grandson Irakli speaking."

Curtly, his mother replied at last, "Please just put your grandmother on the line."

"Mum!" He held the receiver to his face with both hands. "How are you? How is Dad? I'm just about to go and find out about a job. I'll be able to start sending money back soon."

Once more, Elizabeth took a long time to speak, and Irakli waited, holding his breath. He was eager to hear her voice, terrified of what she might say, hoping fervently that Vano was still holding on and that, eventually, Irakli would get to see him again.

"Please don't. The church will support us. Put your grandmother on."

He drew a sharp, pained breath. "I'll send it anyway, Mum."

She hung up, and Irakli blinked in shock at the receiver.

He didn't think to check whether he had missed a call in the meantime and walked stiffly towards the door. "I'm heading out, Granny!"

"Was that Elizabeth?"

He turned before he left and tried to control the guilt on his face. "She'll call you back, Granny."

Rusudan smiled. "She's a good girl, she never forgets to call me - every week since she left!"

Irakli nodded, but had nothing to add to this. He left the apartment and wandered downhill, making straight for the dance studio.

Classes were already happening, so Irakli waited outside until there was a break. He didn't look for acquaintances when the students started to filter out onto the steps, but waved distractedly at the sound of his name and slipped inside to find Aleko.

Ketie indicated the little office to him and Irakli thanked her.

Aleko did not look pleased at having his tea and sandwich interrupted and he did not beckon Irakli in. He didn't drive him out either.

"Hi...Mr Aleko, look, I know you don't like me, but I need this." Irakli stood awkwardly just inside the doorway.

Aleko sighed and finished chewing the bite of sandwich he had just taken. He wiped his fingers on a napkin and did not look at Irakli until he had stopped to sip his tea. Then he spread his hands and said reasonably: "I don't like being wrong, and I did not think you would be back. It makes me uneasy. But you are far and away the best dancer who auditioned. I tried to call you this morning."

Irakli's laugh was dry, though he wanted to cheer and pump the air. "Was it engaged? My mum called."

Aleko squinted at him. "Afterwards, I wanted to choose someone else - Beso told me to try again this evening."

"Well, I thought I would just come in - I had to go to town anyway. So you can see I'm serious this time."

"I see." Aleko nodded. "Well, you've been chosen again, so I hope it's true. Beso has been disappointed rather a lot recently." He studied Irakli with suspicion. "Come to rehearsals from Monday. You have the kintouri, you'll be dancing with Luka. I will test you with partners for the Adjaruli as well."

Irakli made a slight bow. "Thank you, sir."

"That's agreeable to you?"

"Of course."

Aleko seemed surprised by this, and his frown deepened. "Good."

He watched Irakli leave with the same mistrustful scowl, but Irakli was too relieved at the news to worry. It meant security, a regular income, structure to his life and the physical joy of dance that he had been without for weeks.

He still had a smile on his face when he trotted down the steps outside the building and heard his name again.

Luka beckoned him over with a nod. Irakli threw an unthinking grin at Nino and the girls and went back, feeling like he could handle anything then - even Luka's bullshit.

"Hey, I knew it was you! We saw you go in - Rati didn't believe me..."

"Ah, I just didn't see you." Rati shrugged defensively.

Luka ignored Rati and frowned at Irakli. "What're you doing here?"

Irakli shrugged. "Got my place in the ensemble back!"

He didn't owe these guys any real details, and he knew his face looked fine now. Irakli answered their questions with cavalier ease; he'd never even told Luka about his father, so he assumed they had no idea why he'd had to leave before. It was a safe assumption, for once. In the story he gave them, he'd been called back home by needy people who had misjudged the situation - he knew he'd feel guilty about that lie later - and now he was free to get his life back. Missing the audition for the main ensemble had been a drag, but it seemed like a lot of hard work. He was happy to keep having fun.

Luka and the other guys laughed at this, and Luka's stance in particular eased, his shoulders dropped and his arms uncrossed. "Yeah, that's what I've been saying," he nodded. "We never see Vakhtang since he made the main ensemble. He's never free anymore."

"Right? That sucks!" Irakli laughed, preparing to leave on this successful reintegration.

Of course, it wasn't that simple.

"So we're going out tomorrow night, you want to come?"

"Ahh..." Irakli held onto his smile as he tried to think of an excuse he could give. You didn't show weakness in front of guys like Luka. No dying fathers or money problems. "Why don't you text me; I'll see if I can make it."

"Sure."

"Cool."

"We know we'll see you then..."

Irakli waved at them as he turned, and heard Luka's appreciative chuckle when Irakli was stopped again by Ninutsa.

She smiled sweetly, standing a step or two above him so that she could look down into his guilty expression.

"Hey!" Her hands were clasped together in front of her and she bobbed a little, bending her knees in excitement. "It's good to see you! When did you get back?"

"Ah." Irakli saw Luka and his baying mob of lackeys watching him, and thought it might be good for them to think he was still interested in Nino. "Just this week. I had to audition again."

"And you impressed them all over again, I'm sure." Nino beamed. She offered him a cigarette and a seat beside her and Irakli glanced up at the others to confirm they were well out of earshot before he agreed to it.

She reminded him of Zinaida and it was excruciating to watch her long, fine fingers hold a cigarette in the same way, her exaggerated pout and the lowering of her eyelids as she lit her cigarette between thin, pink lips. It wasn't a natural seductiveness when she hooded her eyes - not like Merab, Irakli's thoughts interjected - and the gesture seemed awkward, more of a conscious decision to leave her eyes halfway shut.

"What's up - how have you been?" he asked obligingly.

Nino shrugged. "Fine. It's weird here without Mary and Sopo though. I miss them - and Merab. Oh!" She flushed as her mouth opened, like she had been about to say something and then remembered a good reason not to.

She lowered her voice when she spoke again. "Does Merab know you're back in Tbilisi?"

The tip of his cigarette flared on the sharp breath he drew, but Irakli's expression was innocent.

Nino was searching for a response. Irakli made himself shrug. "Why would he?"

She looked at him strangely. "Did you know he'd left the ensemble?"

This wasn't what Irakli had expected – when he'd encouraged Nino's interest in him last summer, her long blonde hair and fine-boned features had been a pleasant echo of Zinaida. At least until he'd noticed his attentions lingering longer and longer elsewhere. Now, he'd assumed Nino had come over to ascertain whether he was still interested in the occasional bit of messy fumbling in the park, or if he'd saved up enough cash to take her out for a meal sometime. He hadn't expected Merab's name to appear in their conversation at all.

"I...heard something," he answered stiffly.

Instead of flirtation, Nino's smile held a different kind of secret. She looked sad, kind of like she pitied him. "Did you hear about the injury?"

He stared at her, feeling like something cold had been poured down his back. He'd known Merab had been keeping something from him when he'd described the audition to Irakli - he'd known there had been something else to it.

" _Injury_?"

"Oh..." Nino shook her head and looked down at her hands. She raised her cigarette to her lips and then glanced over at Luka again before meeting Irakli's urgent gaze. Her smile and her eyes grew even softer. She grasped his forearm and gave it a sisterly squeeze. "How about I explain after the last session?"

Irakli frowned at her, trying to figure out who her pity was for, whether this was just her way of suggesting a date - even if she didn't seem to be that excited to have an excuse to meet him later. It was more like she'd decided to shoulder a responsibility.

He'd already muttered, "I guess..." before realisation began to dawn. The wind trailed its icy fingers along his shoulders again as he puzzled over Nino's hushed voice, her confidential expression. He felt his stomach drop.

She knew. Somehow, she already knew about him and Merab.

He tried not to flinch but Nino must have seen his eyes widen, his jaw tighten, felt his arm flex beneath her grip.

"It's ok," she said quickly, still with that smile he was beginning to find unnerving in its kindness. "Mary told me after the wedding, when you'd gone. I don't suppose any of us thought you'd be back."

He swallowed nervously, feeling for a moment like he could taste blood again and smell the dusty room at the construction site. He freed his arm from Nino's grip and wrapped it around his body. He turned his face away and took a deep drag on his cigarette.

He couldn't exactly complain about them talking, could he? Mary would have got the details from Merab, and it had been fair to assume that Irakli wouldn't return. He hadn't meant to. But it was a reminder of all that had continued in his absence, and he wondered what terms Merab had framed him in. Irakli hadn't considered whether Merab had spent much time missing him - he'd been too preoccupied with his own addictive longing to imagine what Merab was up to.

"So why are you back here, huh?" Ninutsa's tone was bright, clearly indicating to him that she was happy to be discreet, that she didn't mind the change of topic if he wasn't interested in talking about Merab. "You never had your audition for the main ensemble!"

Again he muttered some excuse about how he didn't mind missing the audition, how he had other stuff going on in his life to think about, not just _dance_ , but then it had turned out to be a more stable job than the others he could get. "It's work, right?" He shrugged, avoiding Nino's eyes.

"Well I'm glad you're back." She stayed close, watching him. "I'm sick of listening to Luka's bullshit."

That made him look up at her. She didn't offer any more specifics and Irakli wondered what she hoped he would do. He had no interest in challenging Luka for some meaningless role as king of the changing rooms. He'd already figured he'd just have to keep his head down, laugh at the shitty jokes Luka told and get creative about his excuses for not going out with the others.

"Oh, don't worry, he doesn't know," Nino read the discomfort on his features. "He doesn't know anything," she added with uncharacteristic bitterness.

Irakli didn't turn to see what was making Luka and the other guys laugh. He wondered why he wasn't more reassured by Nino's response. He could be honest with her now, couldn't he? He'd told David, Sopo had probably known already thanks to Mary who, clearly, knew all about it, and then there was Merab himself.

Irakli took a deep lungful of smoke but it didn't steady his nerves; rather it made him feel lightheaded.

Everyone from that weekend knew, then. Everyone who'd been in that car - and they all knew that he'd had sex with a man; they all knew that man as someone who was out and happy in his skin, getting on with life in the capital. So why wasn't Irakli more reassured by this - hadn't it basically been all he'd wanted from his friends back in Batumi?

He'd been planning on going to the bar that night. He would give Merab the good news about his audition, the ensemble. He'd drink a beer poured by Merab; he'd watch him serve tourists and groups of locals. Irakli loved watching him perform. But now others encroached on this vision: Merab's friends, Merab's supporters. People who'd been around when he'd injured himself, when he'd set fire to his chances at the ensemble, when he'd had to accept that Irakli wasn't coming back.

Unease, tinged with guilt, marred his hopes for the evening.

Next to him, Ninutsa was content to finish her cigarette in silence. She crushed the butt beneath the toe of her dancing shoe and looked at him with a patient sigh. "Back to work! Will you meet me here after practice? I'll fill you in on all the gossip you missed."

He summoned a smile up from somewhere and nodded. "Sure."

Nino grinned and patted his arm awkwardly, then stood and jogged up the stairs to the other girls, leaving a sparkling laugh in her wake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's quite a teeny update and with no Merab! I forgot how achingly slow a first draft can be and made myself miserable worrying that I shouldn't be trying to write something where they stay in Georgia. But then I remembered that it's about standing up to the bastards and living life! So - extra big super special thank you to anyone who's still reading. I really, really appreciate you people a lot.


	42. Chapter 42

Irakli made himself busy through the day. He bought food and took it back to the apartment, he briefly remembered to be proud of regaining his place in the ensemble when he gave his granny the news. She'd forgotten some details - like the fact he'd been in the National Ensemble before - but she was effusive, so delighted that she produced a packet of sweets her neighbour had given her for a special occasion, and Irakli spent a carefree hour laughing on a sugar high with her at the little table in the kitchen.

He let himself think about the audition: he could understand why Merab wouldn't want to say, if an injury had interfered with his chances. Maybe provoking Beso was all the injury would let him do; maybe he'd seen the difficulties in continuing along the professional path and he'd backed off. Irakli worried about how it had happened and tried to link Nino's dislike of Luka to David's warning about him. Luka knew about Merab - had he done something?

These questions made Irakli pensive and restless as he waited for the day's practice to finish. He paced and smoked and thought about dancing with Merab. He missed it. He wondered where he'd find a chance to do so again.

He thought about carrying on as normal in public, but having Merab over every weekend when they could be relaxed around each other and not have to think about anyone else. He'd have called himself absurd last summer, but that was before he'd tried forgetting the whole thing. He wouldn't try that again in a hurry. The memories of last weekend were too fresh. He paced and thought of how much better he slept with another body in his bed, another's breath tickling the hairs on his skin.

He waited on the steps outside the studio until Ninutsa emerged, and he gave her a cigarette and offered his arm for her to link hers through. He didn't know where they were going - she didn't offer to lead, so he just walked with her away from the studio, hoping they'd reach quieter streets eventually.

As they went, she told him in bursts about all she knew of the day Merab had injured himself. He'd been out all night, he was upset about some unanswered messages and Luka had seen him somewhere incriminating - outside one of the gay bars, Nino whispered - and wasted no time in turning on him.

Irakli cursed Luka - he'd guessed that bully had had something to do with it.

David wasn't there, Aleko was foul-tempered and picked on Merab during the lesson, and he'd tried to do a leap and landed wrong...

Irakli stopped. The timing of it dawned on him. He couldn't help it, he raised his hands to his mouth and covered the unspoken swearwords on his lips. No wonder Merab hadn't said anything - it had all been his fault. _His_ unanswered messages, _his_ tips on how to land correctly from that move. _His_ sudden disappearance.

"Fucking hell," he rubbed his face with his hands, and felt the shiver in them. He pressed his fingers to his face until their trembling stopped, but a moment later he felt it again in his arms.

"He's ok..." Nino said. She was smiling, like she found his concern for Merab endearing. "No permanent damage. I don't think it even slowed him down much in the audition - he gave them plenty of other stuff to complain about, according to Mary."

Irakli just nodded. He didn't trust himself to say anything. He didn't want to tell her now that he'd already seen Merab since he'd got back, and that Merab hadn't mentioned any of this. He didn't want to tell her about that morning when he'd been practicing and Merab had come in and watched him with a jealous, sceptical eye before beginning his own practice. How Merab had wobbled on his landing and Irakli had taken the chance to go over and get the measure of this intense, quiet guy. The feeling of his strong, wiry thigh under his hand, how that memory blurred and blended now with every other time Irakli's grip had explored Merab's legs.

"What a dumb thing to do," he said at last.

Ninutsa shrugged and took him by the arm again. "He knew it was. Oh!" She pointed. "Look, the chichilaki stalls are up!"

Orthodox Christmas was still a month away, but the vendors got their stalls up early to benefit from the tourists who expected an earlier festive celebration. The little cones made of wood shavings weren't as much of a feature in Batumi, and Irakli listened to Nino chatter about them and about her Christmas plans while he tried not to think about how strange it would be to spend the season away from his parents. He tried not to think about Merab pushing himself, as Aleko pushed him and his family pushed him, all the while thinking that Irakli had fled rather than see him again.

On impulse, he stopped her near the roadside stalls. "Hey, do you want churchkhela?"

After a second's stunned silence, Nino laughed. Her blonde hair fell forward and she stroked it back with the fingers of her free hand. She flushed pink and echoed him: " _Churchkhela_? What, are you my granny?"

Irakli grinned and shrugged. "Ah, you know, I don't know...it just reminds me of when I was little. I wanted ice cream, and I was always disappointed, but...you know, it still reminds me," he shook his head at himself.

Nino threw her head back and laughed again. "Excuse me - disappointment reminds you of your childhood?"

"Right!" he exclaimed.

They were still giggling when Irakli handed over the cash and the little old lady running the stall smiled indulgently at them. She sold the traditional sweets in all colours and sizes, and their bright, waxy shells looked like an elaborately patterned carpet hanging behind her.

Nino nibbled carefully on her stick of crimson grape must and looked up at Irakli with a sparkle in her eyes. "So...you didn't come back here because of Merab."

Irakli tried not to cough at the sweet churchkhela and Nino's flirtatious tone. He pretended he was still laughing from their earlier exchange and avoided her gaze.

"Are you going back to spend New Year with your family? Anyone else back home?" Nino tried again leadingly, letting herself drift closer to him as they walked on.

Irakli stifled a sigh. The churchkhela he'd chosen wasn't the flavour he'd thought it was. It was close to the ones his mother used to buy him, but not quite the same. He chewed on a piece of hazelnut and shrugged at Nino's question, but found he couldn't be bothered to elaborate on the lie. "Nah, probably not. I'll keep my granny company here instead."

Nino blinked at him expectantly when he didn't add anything more.

Irakli cast his eyes up to the bare trees and street lights, evading whatever she was going to say next for as long as he could.

"So...did you change your mind? Or...it was a phase, or?"

He stopped to look about and ensure that no one came near them, that he couldn't recognise any faces on the busy streets around the stalls. "I think I just need a bit of space, hm?" He said with a seriousness that she mirrored as soon as she saw it.

He felt a stab of guilt for all the times he'd messed around this quick, empathetic woman - Nino's blue eyes went very round and she nodded earnestly. "Oh! Of course. I didn't mean to push you, I -" she tucked her hair behind her ear again and grinned, embarrassed, at the floor. "I said to Mary I could see why you'd be Merab's first gay crush."

Their laughter was awkward, and they both made themselves continue to laugh until the awkwardness wore off - or won out, Irakli wasn't entirely sure.

Nino was still red in the cheeks as they walked in silence for a few yards, each working meticulously at their churchkhela.

Irakli had memorised the address of the bar that Merab had written down for him. He knew it was along a side street just ahead of them, and his pulse quickened as they approached the junction. He felt foolish for having tied himself in knots again already - why couldn't he have just told Nino that he'd seen Merab for coffee, anything other than the denial that had been his first defense?

He didn't mean to linger at the entrance to the street, but he stopped by a bin to make a show of throwing away the string from his churchkhela. He glanced down the alley with its warm lighting and scanned the fronts of the buildings he could see. Within reach, nearer to his end of the street, was an unremarkable twentieth-century block with beer ads on the outside and a dark green awning emblazoned with a traditional-sounding name. It didn't look like a pulsing, vibrant hub of youth and western depravity, rather it was just like any other beer café Irakli had seen. But his heart thumped in his chest like a hammer because of who was inside it.

Nino seemed oblivious to the proximity of such a significant place; such a significant person. Irakli watched her drop the string from her own sweet into the bin before sucking sticky grape residue from her fingers. As he stood there, his mind spinning and his pulse rushing, he realised that it might look strange if he never asked what Merab was up to outside the ensemble - it might look like he already knew, or it might seem like what had happened at Mary's had really been nothing to him.

Panicked by the idea of giving this impression all over again, Irakli pretended to concentrate on peeling a raisin from the end of his churchkhela. "So, what's Merab up to these days? And Mary?" he leaned causally against a lamppost.

Nino blushed again, though Irakli couldn't figure out why. She chewed on her churchkhela and rolled her eyes, but her smile was broad and mischievous behind the demure hand covering her chewing. "I hardly see him, I only know what Mary tells me. She's doing her courses full time now, some social sciences, I don't know, she's changed them a lot..." Nino laughed, as though this was typical for Mary, and Irakli, not knowing whether it was or wasn't, made himself laugh too, though he buzzed with impatience to hear anything about Merab, even if it was what he already knew.

"Mm, I think he works in a club? Or a bar? I don't remember," Nino said. Her ears had gone pink. When she spoke again she did so in a rush, determined to seem mature about the subject though her flushed skin betrayed her. "Mary says he has an American boyfriend. Someone he met in. You know. One of those clubs. The American has his own apartment, Mary says she knows people who have gone there for parties."

It was all second-hand, all according to Mary, but Irakli blinked stupidly at Nino as she spoke. "What?" was all he could manage.

Nino gave him a look of reappraisal and Irakli forced himself to smile as though he were impressed and happy for Merab, not pinned by a sudden blade of jealousy as tangible and sharp as any real weapon in his chest might have felt.

"Yeah," said Nino. "He's been doing really well for himself. I think Mary hoped she'd get to swoop in and save him from ending up like Zaza, but he's fine."

"Good," Irakli nodded. "Good," he stared at his churchkhela and started to walk again. It was so sweet and so filling, he always forgot how sickly he found it when he was halfway through.

He didn't know what else to say to this new revelation. His mind dodged it, and found itself confronted yet again with the report of Merab's injury, with the growing realisation of all the things he still didn't know about Merab or what he'd been up to during the time Irakli had been away from Tbilisi.

He made himself laugh, as though nothing meant anything to him. He didn't know what else he could do.

He barely listened to whatever Nino chatted about as they wound their way through the city, but he hugged her goodbye and returned to his granny's flat in a daze. It felt like there was a thickening fog around him, and his legs were heavy as he climbed the stairs.

He kept up a façade of cheerfulness as he prepared a sandwich for Rusudan and told her about the decorations he'd seen in the city.

"What about you?" she prompted as he laid the plate down.

Irakli told her he'd filled up on churchkhela and kissed her on the cheek before he retreated to his room.

He lay on his back, fully clothed on the made bed. If he turned his face to the side he could smell Merab's hair on his pillow still.

He tried to make himself understand that, while he had spent months thinking about Merab, Merab had just been getting on with his life. He felt like a he'd been tricked somehow, and stared up at the ceiling again, trying to push thoughts of the previous weekend from his mind.

But if everything had gone how he'd expected it to that day, or the day before, he wouldn't be lying there alone now, frustrated and fully dressed on the bed covers. He tried to stop himself from imagining that ideal series of events, but the thoughts were there before he could control them, restless like shadows at the edge of his mind. He put his hands over his face - he couldn't even lie to himself that it was the sex he regretted missing out on. He just wanted to feel the weight of another body on the mattress beside him. The strange, anchoring sensation of another hand on his skin, and arm over his chest, Merab's cheek pressed heavy to his shoulder.

Before he knew it he was thinking again about the summerhouse. When he'd only had a brief chance to stop and hold Merab against him afterwards, and he'd seized it. It had been nothing like the back of Zinaida's car, when she immediately lit a cigarette and peered nervously through the misted car windows, wrapping her top over herself as though she were cold. Instead, in the fresh night air, Merab had let himself be folded against Irakli's body, burrowing his face and his kisses against Irakli's collarbone, while Irakli's hands couldn't get enough of the feeling of Merab's shoulders and muscular back under his fingertips.

He linked together a chain of curses and turned to pull the pillow from beneath his head. He lay on his side holding it against him, his face pushed into it, into what he could identify of Merab's smell as opposed to his own.

It wasn't fair to bring Merab into his mess, Irakli told himself. That last weekend had been a happy accident - he'd not gone to Eliava with any thought of bringing Merab home with him, he'd not done anything to him with the idea that it would lead to more... He'd just gorged himself on what he couldn't have in Batumi, what he'd never thought he'd been able to have again. He should just be satisfied with that handful of memories - nearly twice the number he thought he'd have - and find a way to get on with his life, as Merab had evidently found ways to get on with his.

That world wasn't for him, Irakli thought, shifting his jaw against the too-soft, too-yielding surface of the pillow. When David had said to him with such confidence that Irakli wasn't like that, he'd felt relieved for a moment. He didn't have to be like that. Had he forgotten so quickly how it felt back home? How it was, never fully sharing himself with anyone, hiding from his friends and his mother in every conversation he had?

But maybe, he thought, that _was_ the better path. He'd hurt Zinaida and his mother and now he was starting to see how deeply he'd wounded Merab. His arms tightened on the pillow, his eyes were wide open, not focussed on anything, but panicked as he thought about the speed with which Merab's life had been upended - by him. The best thing Irakli could do was leave him alone, he realised.

It had seemed like an endless day - he'd completely forgotten the call with his mother until his mind reached for more reasons to explain why he deserved this empty bed. Thoughts like that made it easier to avoid the question of rivalry - why worry about Americans who might or might not exist if you could rule yourself out of the race on account of your own unsuitability?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case anyone's fearful: there will be no love triangle nonsense. I just thought it was important to establish that Merab's getting to have healthy and good experiences, and to make Irakli squirm a bit more. Misunderstandings may happen, but love triangle angst will not.


	43. Chapter 43

"Mary!" Ninutsa threw her arms around Mary, towering over her in heels, draping her in silky blonde hair that clung to their winter woollens.

"Hi, Nino..." Mary hugged her and swayed. They chose a table by the window in the milkshake bar, but neither took their coat off. Both ordered drinks with ice in and shivered at the weather and the way the windows filled up with condensation.

Nino asked about her week and Mary shrugged. "Yeah, it was ok." She told Nino about her classes, about the guy she fancied at theatre, about how she was hoping to slip away to see her dad over the holiday season. Nino listened, but she wasn't as helpful as Mary usually found her - she nodded and agreed a little too quickly, she didn't offer Mary reassurance about how an interaction with the guy at theatre had gone - all told, she seemed distracted and impatient to get to her own news.

"Well? What?" Mary finally asked her, gesturing over her milkshake.

Ninutsa grinned and leaned forwards. "Oh Mary, guess who's back at the ensemble?"

"Who?" Mary didn't bother trying to guess. She wasn't in the mood. The milkshake was cold and it was giving her a headache. She was going to theatre group later that day and it always made her jittery, thinking about being around the director, Ali, a handsome Azeri medical student. Her nerves were only stretched tighter by the idea that Merab would be there and might notice how she was around Ali and ask about it. Or not notice and not ask.

Infuriating, exasperating Merab, who hadn't been answering her texts about their usual coffee before the club’s meeting. Another reason to be on edge - Mary distrusted his silences.

So when Nino raised her eyebrows and said "Come on!" it took Mary a moment to even think about the possibilities. Who could be back that would get Nino so excited?

Realisation dawned only a fraction of a second before Nino said with glee: "Irakli! He's back in the youth ensemble!"

Mary felt her mouth drop open, but she had to put on a show of being really, truly surprised. The more she thought about it, the more Irakli's presence made sense of some things that had happened the last week.

"What's he doing here? Why is he back?" Mary snapped, barely holding back the urge to start texting Merab immediately: _Don't lie to me. I know why you couldn't make coffee last weekend..._

Nino recounted some very _Irakli-sounding,_ vague reasons: better pay, it was something he was already qualified for, he wasn't needed in Batumi like he'd thought.

"What about his family?" Mary knew enough from what Merab had told her to be sceptical - even besides her readiness to distrust the man who had hurt Merab with such little care.

She supposed she had decided to stay mad at Irakli after Merab had forgiven him so quickly. Mary would be keeper of the memory of Merab sobbing hopelessly into her shoulder in the courtyard outside Sopo's wedding, of the sound he'd made when he landed wrong on his ankle as he tried to prove something to her and Aleko and Luka and whoever else he felt was stopping him from being with Irakli.

Merab had blamed the world for his pain - Mary blamed Irakli.

Nino shrugged but she did look uneasy when she met Mary's eyes. "I don't know about that. He did say he wasn't going home for New Year's or Christmas services."

Mary grimaced. "Did he say if he'd seen Merab?"

"No. It was like the first thing I asked," Nino admitted. "He said he hadn't seen him."

"Did you believe him?"

"Why, do you know something?"

Mary stabbed at her milkshake with the straw and pulled a face. "No... No I don't know anything. Merab's just been a bit...weird this week."

"Oh? How?"

She tossed her head and sighed. "I know he's busy and sometimes he doesn't want to meet up, but this was more like...he'd almost forgotten about theatre?"

"Mm?" Nino sipped her milkshake and nodded at Mary.

"I mean…he said he couldn't meet up beforehand last week because he needed to go home and change." Mary rolled her eyes - partly at her own awkwardness - and wished Sopo was with them. Sopo was so good at seeing through stuff like this and figuring people out. Sopo was good at stating outright the reasons why someone would need to go home for a change of clothes, and not awkwardly tip-toeing around it, making it seem unmentionable and dirty.

Mary knew she wasn't Sopo. She squirmed in her seat. "And then he just seemed. You know, like he had a secret and he was happy about it..."

Actually, he'd been downright evasive when she'd asked about things, but he had that satisfied, languid look about him - like a well-sunned cat - that gave Mary a fairly good idea of what he wasn't telling her. He'd not been glued to his phone, waiting for replies, but he'd been more prone to daydreaming, and Mary had put it down to something involving his American boyfriend, or an unexpected after-party following on from the clubs.

But Nino shrugged. "I don't think it can have been Irakli though - he told me he just wants some space right now..."

Mary blinked. "Wait, what? What did you ask him?" Ninutsa's self-confidence still took her by surprise sometimes: she was such a quiet, reserved girl that Mary wouldn't have been able to imagine her asking a guy out if she hadn't seen it herself. Nino's little smile, the way she scooped her long hair back behind her ear to show off her piercings - her adventurous core - the way she managed to phrase it so that the guy wasn't embarrassed not to have asked her first.

"Oh..." Nino winced and laughed at herself though. "I was just testing the water. Trying to work out if he's, you know, like Merab, really gay, or just..." Nino shrugged with a crooked little smile. "Likes everyone!"

Mary's jaw clenched. Wouldn't that be typical Irakli, she thought. Having his cake and eating it. "And?"

"Like I said, he says he's not interested in anything right now. I told him about Thomas and he just said it was good," Nino shrugged again.

"Hm!" Mary raised her brows, though she was impressed with this news.

Thomas the American - Mary had met him on the occasions when he had trailed along after Merab to their coffee meetings. He was quiet and attentive, but Mary didn't know to what extent that was him, and to what extent he struggled to follow her and Merab's rapid-fire conversation. Sometimes Merab took pity on him and they spoke in English, but even then Mary didn't have much more than an idealised view of Thomas. He seemed stable and confident, a man on a foreign grant, who could afford to rent a place in Old Tbilisi, who liked the hot springs and spent his time in the university library. He seemed like a grown-up to Mary, and she thought Merab perhaps didn't appreciate him as much as he should.

But she rather liked the idea of Irakli seeing that Merab had found someone good for him, who didn't ghost him or run off without any explanation. Maybe he'd learn what a mistake he'd made.


	44. Chapter 44

Mary didn't bother waiting outside Eliava. She knew where Ioseb's stall was and made her way there with practiced ease, negotiating the car parts and electricals that spilled over from stalls and into the narrow, muddy paths. Ioseb greeted her with a smile and a wave - but she saw Merab's annoyed huff of breath as a cloud of condensation when he bent to move a box of parts back into the secure part of the stall.

"Hello, Mary, how are you this fine day?" Ioseb left Merab to tidy things away and guided her to the little table near his stall.

Mary glanced up guiltily, but Merab was getting on with things, not bothering to pay attention to her and Ioseb.

"I'm well, Mr Ioseb, how are you?" Mary assumed he'd been taking a few more nips of liquor from his hip flask in celebration of the end of the working day. He wasn't always this cheerful.

Ioseb complained about all of his problems - in a pleased sort of way - and Mary braced herself for the inevitable conclusion. She just hoped Merab wasn't within earshot of it this time. He'd certainly heard it enough.

"You're a very sensible girl you know. Why do you still come here to see this boy? He's not right, and you won't fix him. You should go and find yourself someone better for you, leave the wrecks and freaks out here on the scrap heap."

Mary produced a tolerant smile. "Merab's my friend, Mr Ioseb; that hasn't changed."

Ioseb sighed and made a sound that might have conveyed gratitude. Mary wasn't entirely certain how much he knew - or thought he knew - about Merab, but he seemed accepting of whatever it was in a resigned, self-pitying kind of way. As though he'd always expected Merab to turn out wrong, or a disappointment, and that this was merely another inevitable part of Ioseb's punishment for the poor decisions he had made and the poor hand life had dealt him.

Merab came over to them to get the keys to secure the stall and Ioseb handed them over, with a condescending mini-lecture on which key did what. Mary suspected it was more to impress her with the amount of locks than because Merab didn't know what he was doing. He glanced at her and rolled his eyes as Ioseb repeated information he'd doubtless heard dozens of times already.

Mary smiled. At least it was a sign that he wasn't in an irredeemably foul mood with her.

Ioseb tolerated her assistance in packing away the chairs and the fold-up table - allowing a girl to help him simply fed into his long-suffering narrative - and then Merab tossed the keys at him and said he'd bring back leftovers from the restaurant later.

"Try and get khinkali this time," Ioseb told him as Merab turned to light a cigarette and offer Mary one. "A man cannot live on lavash alone!"

"Yeah dad, yeah," Merab grumbled, taking Mary's arm and leading her away from the stall, past all the other vendors packing their things away. He didn't need to, but he guided her with care between obstacles on paths that had become even more chaotic as people moved their goods around for storage overnight.

It was an unthinking gesture that always made Mary sad - she missed believing that his care had been something special for her, and not just something he'd offer anyone. But she still liked the touch of his fingers on her arm, steering her away from a tyre that had slipped off its stack, or his hand as a weight on her rucksack, making her stop when someone swung a bundle of pipes around in front of them.

She glanced over at Merab and tried to work out what kind of mood he was in really, beyond his usual Eliava persona of market stall gruffness. The glow of the previous weekend had worn off somewhat. His mouth was pinched and worried around his cigarette, which he smoked quickly before lighting another. His eyes moved restlessly over the crowds, as though he was looking for something, or someone, though he had no expectation of finding them.

"Been up to much this week?" Mary asked him.

"Nah." He blew a line of smoke into the air and wrapped his free arm around his body, keeping his fingers stuffed in his armpit, out of the cold.

Mary thought about asking what had happened to the pair of gloves she'd bought him, but they were probably there in his coat pockets, knowing Merab - he just chose not to wear them. "Seen anyone interesting? Anyone familiar?"

"Nah." He had definitely not been listening.

She made a sound of annoyance and elbowed him. "Oh yeah? Then I know something you don't."

Merab looked over at her from hooded eyes, and Mary hated how handsome she still found him. She lifted her chin and made him wait as she dragged on her own cigarette and ran her gaze over the people on the street. "Yeah. Irakli's back."

She cast an immediate, surreptitious glance at him and caught the expression on his face: his mouth tightened into a private smile around the filter of his cigarette and his eyes had wandered somewhere into the middle distance, over the railings of the bridge they were crossing. It was not the expression of someone caught off guard by new information.

Irakli might have had Nino fooled, but Mary knew Merab too well for that. And Merab had never learned how to lie well about Irakli, whatever else he'd figured out how to keep hidden.

"Merab..." Mary couldn't help her exasperation. "What are you doing?"

He shrugged and said, "What," but not really like he was questioning her, just like it was explanation enough. He knew she'd be mad - that was why he was being evasive. He knew it was stupid to get involved again with the person who had hurt him.

"You've been seeing him."

"He came to see me." He was trying to sound defensive, to bat away her interest, but he couldn't hide how pleased he was to be able to say that.

Scandalised, Mary swore. "He came back here to see you?"

"No." That was quick - and honest. He looked down at his feet and kicked a ball of litter to the edge of the pavement. "But he came to Eliava. We went for coffee," he said, and looked quickly at Mary to check her response.

"What are you doing?" Mary repeated with a groan, pressing her hands to her face. "Are you serious?" She was certain it had been more than coffee. She didn't want to have to call him out on it.

Her wail raised a scoff of irritation, but Mary was relieved to see he wasn't quite as unwilling to hear criticism of Irakli as he'd been before. Even after Irakli had left him at the wedding, when Mary wanted to rage at him, he could do no wrong in Merab's love-struck heart.

Now, at least, Merab had the self-awareness to look somewhat uncomfortable. "What does it matter?" he muttered.

"It matters because I know you," she said baldly. They walked shoulder to shoulder, neither looking at the other, Merab glaring at the ground, Mary gesticulating at the traffic with her cigarette. "I remember what this was like last time - you forget things too easily. Why is he back here?"

Merab stopped to stub out his cigarette butt and bin it. He wrapped his arms about his body and looked at Mary with a frown. "Things didn't go well for him at home. He didn't come back here to make trouble, Mary."

Mary responded with a deadpan, doubtful look. "Really. Didn't go well? How? Wasn't he getting married?"

"That's not happening now," Merab said swiftly. There was too much eagerness there for Mary's liking. "Why are you being like this? I think he just needs some friends here."

"Friends? He's never had any problem making friends before," Mary said wryly. "Seriously, he's messed this poor girl in Batumi around as well and you're defending him, still?"

"It's not that." His voice went soft and he frowned down at his folded arms. He was debating whether or not to say anything else, and Mary made herself wait, pushing down her frustration and all the protective feelings towards Merab that Irakli’s presence provoked in her.

The expression on Merab's face made it easy to stay silent as she waited though - it was a reflection of the same worry she felt for him. "He didn't say, but I think he got in a fight. I don't think he can go back, even if he wanted to."

Mary bit the inside of her lip and crossed her own arms tight. "He didn't say?"

She regretted pushing him as soon as his chin lowered and he gave her a reproachful look. "No - but he was covered in bruises."

"Ah! So it wasn't just coffee." Mary threw her finished cigarette in the bin with a triumphant shout. She didn't want to think about the other implications of what he'd said. Pity for Irakli interfered with her dislike of him.

Merab just rolled his eyes and swore dismissively, but he let Mary take his arm again as they walked on.

On the one hand, Mary tried to be pleased for him. Maybe Irakli had been kicked out of his home because he'd been caught with some guy - maybe he'd missed Merab as much as he'd been missed. Mary wasn't sure she believed it, but a part of her knew what it meant to Merab and she wanted to believe it. She didn't see the allure of Irakli herself, she never had, but, when it came down to it, she just wanted Merab to be happy.

Despite that, the confirmation that he'd spent the night with Irakli the other weekend made Mary indignant and hurt on Thomas's behalf. She worried about whatever trouble Irakli had made for himself, and she hoped he hadn't brought it back to Tbilisi. She worried that Merab would do something rash, before it was certain what the situation really was. She kept glancing over at Merab, but he didn't seem about to say anything, so she took a deep breath and resolved, yet again, to be the responsible one.

"Merab...what about Thomas? What were you thinking?"

The muscles in his arm tightened against hers, but she held on so that he couldn't ignore her so easily as they walked together.

She could tell from that lingering, middle-distance light of stubbornness in his eyes that the answer was that he hadn't been thinking. Not with his brain, at any rate.

Mary wanted to shake him. "You're not going to break up with him are you?"

Mary was a firm believer that the American was a force for good in Merab's life: a man who had grown up unashamed of himself, who knew how to be discreet without denying his identity, who benefitted from Georgian lessons and repaid them gratefully with access to his luxurious, central apartment. He was a few years older than them, wiser, more worldly - but kind and reliable. A man who might offer Merab a ticket out of the country, Mary hoped, deep down.

Merab just shrugged though, with a passing frown of irritation.

He was going out of his way to cause her a headache, Mary was sure. "Is it all over now? Is - is Irakli your boyfriend instead?"

"Mary, leave it." He didn't snap like she expected, but sighed and rolled his head away from her.

Before they made it to the coffee shop she managed to prise the extra information from him at last: he hadn't seen Irakli since the previous weekend. He hadn't heard from him in that time. Irakli was meant to have come to the bar but he'd never showed up - Merab hadn't even been sure he'd got his place back in the ensemble until Mary had told him.

It confirmed all of her worst suspicions and fears about Irakli, and she didn't hold back in telling Merab so.

With urgency, Mary shared what else Nino had said. She decided that it would be like ripping off a bandage - Merab still had Irakli on a pedestal and that needed to change as quickly as possible now he was back. If Irakli had been messing him about all week, then Merab deserved to know all the ways in which he'd been lying.

"You know he said to Nino he hadn't seen you."

To Mary's chagrin Merab just shrugged. "I didn't tell you about it until you insisted."

"Well, he was apparently happy for you when Nino told him about Thomas."

Merab stopped abruptly, his hands in his pockets and shoulders hunched defensively. "What?"

Mary spread her arms. "What, 'what'? Of course she mentioned it; it's not a secret."

Merab was rolling his eyes and turning away again. He put his hands over his face and she heard him mutter a curse. He reached reflexively for his phone and then swore again. "She told him? You're sure she told him?"

"Yeah." It was Mary's turn to roll her eyes. "Nino wanted to ask him out. According to her, he just wants some space."

Merab muttered something that sounded suspiciously like "what does Ninutsa know about it", but he was biting the ends of his nails and not addressing the words to anyone in particular. He stopped and looked around, his hand over the pocket with his phone in it, mulling over what to do.

"Do you think Ali really needs me for the scene tonight?"

" _What_?" Mary exclaimed. "Merab, no, don't go looking for him..."

He looked stricken, but didn't meet her eyes. "I should just explain it."

Mary grabbed his arm and tried to bring him into the café. "Why don't you send him a text explaining it?

"His phone's broken."

"How? He can still read texts, right?"

"I don't know." Merab chewed his thumbnail as Mary ushered him to a chair.

She was still amazed by how swiftly his confidence could dissipate under the wrong circumstances. At the wrong word from the wrong person she could look at him and see him as he'd been when they first started dancing together as children: eager to please, mortified that he'd done something wrong, already formulating a way of asking for a second chance to prove himself.

She looked at him sternly. "Why are you worrying about what Irakli thinks about Thomas, not what Thomas would think about Irakli?"

Finally, Merab looked up at her and Mary sighed at the guilt in his expression. He put his phone away and watched her sit down, and changed the subject to the scenes they were doing that night. Mary let him - she was almost looking forward to the frisson of talking with Ali now; it would be a relief from the stresses of everyone else's love lives. They settled to coffee, and Mary put Irakli from her mind in the hope that Merab had done the same.


	45. Chapter 45

There were only a few days left until the new, western Christmas and the city was draped in lights, the markets selling seasonal wares were everywhere, and tourists huddled on the streets, conspicuous in their bright, puffy winter jackets. Irakli walked to the studio in dark mornings and came back in dark evenings.

Now he felt numb when he thought of Merab, but it was a stinging numbness that warned of pain to come in its wake. When he had been in Batumi, he could blame the whole world for his problems, for keeping him from the thing he realised he wanted so badly. Now, though, there was no distance or uncomfortable family circumstance to shield him: Irakli knew that he was the problem, that he didn't deserve any enduring interest from Merab because he'd not made his feelings clear enough before. He'd let Merab think he might just have left him without a word. He'd been too proud to say that one of the reasons he'd come back to Tbilisi, that he'd been at David's wedding, had been the hope that he could see Merab again and explain in person.

So he never went to Merab's bar. He hadn't seen him since that weekend, when he'd woken up full of misguided hope for what he'd assumed was newly possible. It was hard to unravel the reasons for his guilt now - he'd cheated on Zinaida and now apparently he'd encouraged Merab to cheat on this foreign boyfriend of his. He'd left a trail of hurt in his wake, and he'd been oblivious to it as he crashed through other peoples' lives.

It made him fearful of the connections he used to form with ease and without thought, and in an effort to avoid thinking about all the ways in which he'd fucked things up, he found himself missing simpler times. He thought of his father and his mother with unexpected frequency. He remembered, out of the blue, the way his father had wiped tears of pride away when Irakli had come off stage at one of the festive recitals, and his mother had watched them embrace awkwardly with a shy, pleased smile. He saw the churches filled with light and song, and hated the fact that he remembered the winter services they had gone to as a family with any happiness at all, when now the sight of black robed priests and the smell of incense made him queasy.

He continued to send most of his earnings back to Batumi, and continued to hear nothing in return. He didn't like to ask Rusudan about it after she spoke with his mother - if she realised Elizabeth was not talking to him she would only be sad and worried. There would be further questions. He wasn't sure she'd understand if Elizabeth told her the reasons for their falling out, and he didn't want to test her comprehension of these things.

He pretended an attitude of cavalier nonchalance at the studio, except when he danced - and then even Aleko had to remind him not to take the kintouri so seriously. Nino cleaved protectively to him, but he worried that she was hoping he would be grateful for her care, and that his gratitude for this might turn to something warmer. It made him miserable that no amount of indifference seemed to give her pause for thought. Luka boasted continually about his trips to the brothels and about the enormous family gathering he was having for the New Year. He had high hopes that his grandparents would give him money towards a car. If he noticed that Irakli was a more subdued person than he'd been before, that he had no new wild stories to recount, then he didn't seem to mind - it left the stage open for Luka to perform.

The main ensemble held a series of seasonal shows in the Rustaveli Theatre and seats had been reserved on the last night for the dancers in the youth ensemble to go and watch. Irakli wore his smart red shirt and agreed to meet Nino for a drink beforehand.

It was a baffling experience, walking into the trendy wine bar and seeing her perched on a high stool, all long, surprisingly tanned legs and immaculately straight blonde hair trailing down her back. She wore something tiny, black and sequined that showed off the muscle in her thighs and her sharp collarbones, and Irakli stood for a moment in the doorway of the bar wondering what on earth he was doing with his life.

She was beautiful, he didn't try and deny it. Wildly, greedily, he had a fleeting vision of a life where he could have Nino and have Merab, and he grinned in panic across the bar. What he felt was, above all, a reminder that any sense of attraction brought up thoughts of Merab in its wake, warm and bittersweet like the memory of a drug.

Ninutsa let him order the drinks, expressing a preference for a none-too-cheap vintage. She seemed to enjoy the sense of his eyes running up her bare legs more than she cared about making conversation. In stilted episodes, they talked about days at the ensemble, then Nino tried to get him to discuss wine, which he didn't have much of an opinion on. Irakli half-heartedly asked her what her plans for New Year were and winced as she started telling him about her family.

Before he was expected to explain about his own situation, he threw back the last of the wine and offered her a hand down from the stool. They walked to the theatre together and Irakli saw the jealously approving look Luka gave him as they approached the group of guys smoking in front of the building.

The performance itself made Irakli impatient in his seat. He folded his arms and fidgeted and his knee jogged as he watched the main dancers with hungry fascination. He wished he could talk to Merab about it. He wished Merab had been there sitting next to him - he'd have grabbed his thigh and leaned over close enough to smell his hair, to whisper in his ear: _They need variety. They look like the North Korean army, not like they're telling a story!_

Heresy: he'd never dare say it to anyone else in the ensemble. In short, the performance didn't move him, except to criticism and frustration. The life had been drilled out of it to Irakli's eyes, even if the theatre as a whole clearly disagreed.

Vakhtang, in the chorus of dancers, received rapturous cheers from Luka and the others every time he stepped forward. "Ururu!" bellowed Luka over the applause of the audience.

Nino swayed her face towards to Irakli, her hair brushed his arm, and she muttered, "Just throw him a bunch of flowers already, Luka..."

Pleasantly surprised by her scathing tone, Irakli stifled a laugh with the back of his wrist. She grinned wickedly and sat back to watch the rest of the performance with a glassy, satisfied expression on her face.

Afterwards, milling around in the queues to leave, he felt Nino close to him, one arm snaking around his arm, her hands wrapped around his hand. In the bustle of people, Irakli couldn't put space between them again and he felt his pulse quicken, trepidation tightening its grip on his chest each time Nino squeezed his fingers.

He pretended not to see her insistent expression and turned to the guys when they finally got outside.

"We're going for drinks with Vakhtang. He's finally got a few days off," Luka announced with pride.

Irakli responded with interest as he looked for his cigarettes and lit two, acting oblivious to Nino's unspoken preference for leaving together. It didn't occur to him that she was simply offering him a way out of a night drinking with Luka - he stubbornly thought that he needed to find some way of acting normal around the guys again. He'd slipped up in Batumi, but he wouldn't do that here - he'd never consider telling Luka or Rati half of what he'd tell Shota or the others, drunk or sober. But he needed to maintain the illusion that he was the same guy he'd been when he first arrived there, and he'd been avoiding too many of their nights out with increasingly lame excuses.

He passed Nino a cigarette, an inadequate apology, but he turned to Luka and shrugged. "Yeah, that could be fun. Ninutsa, do you want to see if the other girls are coming?"

She nodded with equanimity, hiding her disappointment well. She was far too patient with him, Irakli thought.

The girls conferred, but they didn't fancy it, and Luka seemed pleased they wouldn't be there to hamper his fun. Nino gave Irakli a hug and murmured "be careful" in his ear, but he pretended he didn't know what she was talking about.


	46. Chapter 46

In a loud bar they stood around a table listening to Vakhtang's stories of the main ensemble. He had no duets of his own yet, but he'd gathered plenty of stories from being in the chorus. Luka looked on with admiration and not a little jealousy as Vakhtang talked about what he expected from their next tour - the hotels, the late nights at the bar with the women from the ensemble, adoring fans in every country, exotic brothels in every city.

Noises of approval surrounded him, and the youth ensemble dancers eyed him up and congratulated him again on his audition.

"Yeah, you know I meant to say thank you, man." Vakhtang turned to Irakli, laughing and grabbing his shoulder, and Irakli tried not to tense up. It was a touch he'd once have made himself without thinking: a casual, brotherly gesture.

"Oh yeah?" Irakli grinned through gritted teeth and hid his discomfort behind his beer.

Vakhtang nodded. "Yeah, I never had to go up against you at the audition - you've no idea how relieved I was when I heard you weren't turning up."

Irakli joined in the good-natured laughter, but his cheeks hurt from the effort. It was meant to be a compliment, but he felt like he'd been kicked when he was down again. "Oh, you're welcome," he managed sardonically.

Luka, ever-skilled in judging the mood, in wresting attention back to himself - or at least away from any rivals - interjected loudly, "Hey, at least we can all hold our heads up and say we lost to a good dancer. Imagine if that little faggot Merab had won the place!"

The obligatory laughter bubbled up again, and Irakli drank again, deeply. He hoped the red in his cheeks would be interpreted as the result of the warm room, instead of the anger he felt as soon as Luka opened his mouth.

Vakhtang was surprisingly conciliatory though - perhaps his newfound position of seniority allowed him to be more generous. "Ah, come on - I was surprised to see him there at all after what he did to his ankle."

Luka just scoffed into his drink.

Gela elbowed Vakhtang. "Yeah, but do you remember that chokha he wore? Since when could the Lominadzes afford that kind of kit?"

It cued up some absurd speculation about when Merab had been doing on the night Luka had seen him outside one of the gay bars in town, and Irakli half-listened, with a rigid expression on his face that he hoped passed as amusement.

In reality, he could see nothing amusing in the conversation. He was losing sight of why it was so important to play along with them. He imagined Merab wearing the old red chokha - the one he had insisted on seeing Merab try on, on seeing Merab keep. He imagined Merab injured and disappointed with himself and with everyone else - disappointed and hurt by Irakli's inadequate farewell at the wedding. He imagined Merab somehow finding the guts to go into that changing room with Luka and the others and then to step out in front of Aleko and Beso and show them that he was done with their bullying and their impossible demands.

He could have just not turned up - like Irakli, he could simply have side-stepped the confrontation. But that wasn't Merab's way. It made Irakli light-headed with combined admiration for Merab and loathing of himself. He reached for one of the shot glasses on the tray Rati set down. He didn't want to talk to the rest of them, but he'd drink the alcohol they bought and try to forget all the things he'd learned about the trouble Merab had gone through while he'd been away.

Luka was now making fun of David and Sopo, as though he hadn't been at their wedding, holding the crown above David's head, as though he and David hadn't once been firm friends. Irakli didn't bother wondering about the circumstances of their falling out - he chose not to try and imagine how the information he already knew fit together. Rati wasn't focussed on Luka's story either. He'd probably heard it a million times, so he and Irakli touched their glasses together and knocked back another shot.

When the roar of the vodka in his body subsided, Irakli straightened his neck and reached for his beer again, but he paused as he caught what Luka was saying.

"I can't believe he thought that was worth fighting over!"

"What honour was he defending?"

"I know, right?"

"I thought he was coming for me." Luka shook his head. "Can you imagine? Swinging a punch on behalf of that little pervert?"

"I mean, it's his brother..." Vakhtang laughed. "But he must have known."

Luka didn't stop. "Shit. Defending the indefensible..." He added a few choice insults directed at David.

Irakli listened to them reminisce about beating David up at his own wedding and he felt his blood run cold and sluggish. He felt the drinks he'd just had burn in his stomach and threaten to force their way back up his throat. Even Rati was laughing now, asking Luka to tell them again about how surprised David had been when Gela had joined in with Luka, and the rest of them had followed suit.

With a nervous laugh, Irakli muttered his response and tried not to run to the bathroom.

He locked himself in one of the stalls, flipped the seat down and sat on it, staring in surprise at his shaking arms. He still felt sick, and the air in the little room didn't help. He stood up again and lifted the seat, leaning above it and wondering if he was going to throw up.

Nothing happened: his breathing stayed heavy, he closed his eyes and swallowed. He ran a hand over his ribs and forearm, pressing to confirm that his own bruising was long gone.

So, he shared that experience with David - but he couldn't imagine David running terrified through the streets, or shivering in a toilet cubicle at the mere mention of someone else's fight. After all, that kind of thing happened all the time, didn't it? It was just how men sorted things out. That was what Irakli's father would have said.

And at least David had defended himself. Irakli closed his eyes and leaned over the bowl, his palms flat against the back of the stall.

He could stay there and do nothing, feeling worse about all the other times he had done nothing - or, the vodka prompted him, he could stop pretending he cared about his standing with a bigot like Luka and get out of there.

There were only a couple more days of classes at the ensemble before they took a seasonal break - he could go now and feign interest in what he'd missed out on tomorrow.

When he was certain he wasn't going to be sick he went to the sink and splashed his face. He looked at himself in the grubby mirror and arranged his hair, guiding the front into its small, licked-back quiff, straightening the parting. Worried dark eyes stared back at him, serious and steadier than the rest of him felt.

He touched his fingertips to the skin of one cheek and then the other, confirming the absence of bruises there, too. As he did so, he felt the echo of Merab's questing fingers against his face. He held his own gaze for as long as he could in the mirror, trying to figure out who this shaken, uncertain version of himself was, why it should be that one of the best things he'd ever let himself do had left him stripped of confidence, second-guessing everything else in his life.

He shook the water off his hands with a curse and returned to the bar with a purposeful stride.

At least they'd moved on by the time he got back. Vakhtang had his phone out, showing the others pictures of the women in the main ensemble. Irakli shrugged his coat on, finished his beer, made a passing noise of approval at the image on Vakhtang's phone screen, then made his excuses and waited nervously for the response.

Luka questioned him once - was he sure he was willing to miss out on the strip club they were going to? - but his expression was slack with drink and he leaned companionably against Vakhtang, his elbow on the taller man's shoulder, and turned back to the picture on Vakhtang's phone before Irakli had even replied.

A little surprised at this indifference, Irakli seized the opportunity and left the bar, promising Rati he'd owe him for the drinks. Maybe he'd just overestimated his own importance - people in the capital didn't care so much about it if you fell out of line. If you missed the fun it was your own fault, not a source of collective indignation like it had been back home.

Irakli felt dizzy in the night air, light with relief to be away from the circus. He shook his head at himself as he lit a cigarette - had he really thought a night out with Luka and the others would be worth it? All he knew now was that the more he heard about how the aftermath of that weekend had played out for Merab - and for David too - the more Irakli felt like it was unfinished business. Christ, would he have told David about him and Merab if he'd known David had taken a beating for Irakli's actions?

He'd never liked the sense of being blamed for something that wasn't his fault, of air that hadn't been cleared. Now, when he knew he wasn't himself around most people he met, to think that those who knew him better also had cause to resent him would be a thorn in his side that he couldn't ignore. He needed forgiveness from somewhere - he couldn't get it at home, he didn't want it from the church, but he had to ask for it from Merab. He was certain of it, filled with the same fervent need he'd had when he'd drunkenly pinned Merab against the wall in his own flat that morning months ago.

_It wasn't my fault_.

But this time, it looked like it was. And it gave all the more urgency to his guilt as he wandered through the busy night-time streets, biting his lip between drags on his cigarette, staring intently at the pavement and following where his feet took him.


	47. Chapter 47

He sighed, having reached the inevitable end point of his wandering.

There were a few smokers under the green awning of the bar: young people in mixed groups, wearing the latest fashions according to whichever cultural sub-division they felt an affinity to. The space beneath the awning was shielded from the warm orange street lights, but the coloured glass in the bar windows made a kaleidoscope of the shadows. Irakli stood deliberately far from the door, finishing his cigarette and listening to the sounds coming from inside: synthesiser-heavy pop music, the chatter of patrons, glasses clinking.

He imagined he could hear Merab's voice through the hum of other peoples’, or that the sounds of glasses being gathered up were the sounds of Merab's hand clearing tables. He was too buzzy with the vodka he'd had to think seriously about what he was going to say. His feet had led him there and he watched himself as though from a distance, observing from the other side of the street as he stubbed his cigarette out against the wall of the building and dropped it in the sand bucket.

He stepped into the warm room, into the dim light and the noise and the bustle. He tried to look without looking, his eyes low, skimming the floor, the tables, the middle-distance, the bar...

His heart raced, but he didn't see the familiar lines of Merab's body anywhere he looked. He lifted his chin and checked again, less subtlety in his glance this time, but he was still disappointed. There was a woman behind the bar - she looked hassled and busy, but she was talking to a pair of people sitting on the stools in front of her. There were no other bar staff that Irakli could see.

Mechanically, he continued across the room, through the groups of people and tables, wondering whether Merab would appear suddenly from the storeroom door behind the bar, wondering if he'd taken a night off - second-guessing what that might say about the night he'd taken off to spend with Irakli. Maybe it had meant less than Irakli had assumed, had wanted it to; maybe Merab actually took nights away from the bar all the time.

There weren't many free seats around. Irakli settled on a stool at the counter and waited for the woman behind the bar to finish her conversation before he ordered a beer and a chaser.

He didn't really know why he stayed. He wasn't in the habit of drinking alone, but he felt, absurdly, that people might know he'd made a mistake if he turned round and left without ordering anything. It would be like admitting he'd been stood up - by someone who had no reason to expect him to be there at that time.

Irakli sipped at his beer and directed an aggrieved expression towards his surroundings every now and then. He let the music and the sounds around him turn into atmospheric soup, allowing himself to feel the emotions of the songs without bothering to listen to their lyrics or language. He'd given up on seeing Merab that night, and he'd lost track of why it had been so important.

He felt foolish sitting there nursing his drinks and he lifted his glass, ready to start throwing it back in earnest, when the sound of Merab’s name sliced clean through the haze surrounding him.

"Merab said he'd stay with her. He knew I was meeting you tonight."

His head snapped to the right - he couldn't help it.

The two guys on the bar stools didn't notice. One, with the back of his head to Irakli, gestured expressively as he spoke. He had shoulder-length blond hair that shimmered as he moved, and his clothes were more garish than anything else around them. His voice was nasal and high, and it cut through the background noise, so that Irakli could hear what he said even though he faced away from him. His companion, with close-cropped brown hair and a goofy smile, spoke more quietly, but he was near enough for Irakli to pick up the gist of what he said in reply.

"Oh, that's why you wanted to come here instead?"

"Yeah - we had to come here to check Maia wasn't mad. You're not mad, are you Maia?"

The woman behind the bar leaned on one of the taps and gave them a long-suffering look. "That you roped my colleague into one of your schemes _again_ , Mate? On the busiest weeknight other than Friday?"

The blond guy, Mate, swiped the air with a flamboyant gesture. "Schemes! Lika needed stitches this time, and do you think the cops gave a fuck?"

Maia produced a shot glass from somewhere and made a toast to Mate and the other guy. "Fuck the cops. What do they ever do for us?"

Irakli made himself drink more slowly again. His teeth clenched and his mind reeled with the possibilities: what on earth was Merab involved in now, that necessitated the mention of police, of stitches?

"You know, I never figured out how you two became partners in crime..." Maia said to Mate, who clearly relished the attention from an audience.

Irakli tried not to wince at her choice of words.

Mate leaned an elbow on the bar and pointed a long finger at Maia. "That's because you never come to Bassiani with us, Maia. Our connection is through _dance_."

Mate's companion sniggered into his drink, and Irakli felt his neck grow warm. How ridiculous, to let himself be needled by this, a complete stranger talking about dancing with a guy Irakli had only slept with a handful of times, who he'd only danced with a handful of times.

"Wasn't Merab like, a professional?" Mate's companion laughed.

Mate tossed his hair and nodded. "Mm, oh yes. _Oh_ , did I tell you how I met him?" The delight in his body language was evident when Maia shook her head blankly and his other companion snorted and shook his head.

Mate sat up and resettled himself on the stool. He rolled the wide sleeves of his jacket up a little and set the scene with his palms out. "Ok, so…" Mate glanced around to check the extent of his audience.

Irakli's eyes dropped hastily to his beer, and he knocked back the last mouthful, unsure how much of this story he wanted to hear. He fiddled with the glass that held his chaser as Mate continued to speak.

"I had to get the bus - I had a really early meeting with this guy about a studio space, I was tired, the city was grey, you know how it is..." Mate's hand fluttered continuously like a bird as he chatted. "And there's this guy on the bus - oh my god, red hair to die for, this tidy, neat little thing, and ok, I had a look, but he caught me looking - "

" - They always catch you Mate, you're not subtle." Mate's friend laughed.

"You wouldn't have been either, I'm telling you. He caught me looking and he smiled back, right in the middle of this crowded bus. You know when you look at someone and you can just tell they've had the most mind-blowing sex of their life the night before?"

Mate's little audience erupted into incredulous laughter.

Irakli nearly dropped his shot before he steadied his grip enough to knock it back. He figured he'd heard enough. This wasn't something he should be listening to.

As Mate and his friends argued over how you could tell this about a person from their smile on a crowded bus, Irakli stood and fastened his coat. He checked for his cigarettes with unsteady hands and turned to walk past Mate on his way out.

"But that's not all of it," Mate was saying. "I ran into this _same guy_ on the street that night. Completely different. Heartbroken. His sweetheart from the weekend had gone missing and he didn't know what to do, so I took him to Nia's place and got him dancing until he forgot about it."

"Gone missing? What happened?" Mate's friend grimaced.

Mate just made a dismissive gesture. "Wasn't answering his phone. I don't know. Just dropped off the face of the earth. I think Merab said later the guy had had some excuse, but it sounded like crap to me."

Irakli wasn’t aware that he'd stopped to stare until Maia's eyes met his and she waved. "Thanks for visiting. See you." She knew he'd been listening: there was a brusqueness in her voice that bordered on hostility, as though she thought Irakli's interest in the conversation had the potential to be a threat.

"Thanks for the drinks," Irakli said automatically. He looked away and his fingers went through the motions again of checking that his jacket was fastened and checking that his cigarettes were in his hand. He turned and walked stiffly towards the door, pausing each time he encountered a cluster of people and hoping they would part without his intervention.

He didn't turn back to the bar and didn't notice the small commotion that erupted when Maia's colleague arrived back on duty, cold from the night air, disgruntled and haunted by the smell of hospital disinfectant. Merab had barely greeted Mate and the others before he saw Irakli's leather jacket disappearing across the room.

He turned on his heel and bolted out through the back of the bar, while Irakli remained focussed on the singular, troublesome task of finding his way out of the front of the building as he thought about what Mate had said and struggled to comprehend it.

That _had_ been him, right? It must have been the Monday after Mary's birthday. Unless Merab had had the misfortune to be ghosted by someone else. But no - they'd implied he was still at the ensemble when Mate had met him.

_Mind-blowing sex_? Irakli choked on his first drag of the cigarette he lit and he blinked at the pavement, feeling the stirring of distant, unfamiliar pride - it was the same rush he used to get when he knew he'd danced impeccably. He laughed under his breath at his own response - was that really all he could focus on, when he'd also heard, yet again, how hurt Merab had been when he'd left? But then he'd already known about that. It was rarer to receive indirect confirmation of how good it had been for Merab. He turned in the direction of home, letting his thoughts sink comfortably into memories of that weekend.

He walked past the front of the bar and didn't notice anything about his surroundings, lost in his own self-indulgent thoughts until a door slammed open in the alley he was passing. The sound was jarring enough to make him glance up.

Merab looked ethereal in the darkness. His white t-shirt glowed briefly in the light from the bar before he let the back door fall shut.

"Irakli?" he called, and Irakli stepped into the alley without hesitation.

He remembered to glance back once, but there was no one nearby. He stepped into the shadows, past the bulk of the bins, feeling his pulse quicken with each step he took. His memories of Merab always seemed inadequate when he saw him again: there was a dynamism about him, a restlessness in his eyes and his mouth that drew Irakli's attention, that made him warm and hungry.

Irakli smiled and lifted his chin, feeling himself swagger a little as he approached Merab. "Hey..."

"What are you doing here?"

He shrugged laconically. "Ah, you know, I was just passing by and thought I'd check the place out..."

Merab crossed his arms over his chest, tucking his hands in his armpits. It was a cold December night, though the alcohol cocooned Irakli from the worst of it. Merab's breath misted around his face and his mouth was thin, unsmiling despite Irakli's encouraging grin.

He frowned as he looked Irakli up and down, probably trying to assess how drunk he was.

Irakli just stood there with his smile widening under Merab's attention. He could look at him forever; just being around him felt like a relief again. He didn't mind if Merab thought he was drunk - he knew that he'd feel the same way sober.

"Oh!" Irakli dropped a heavy hand to Merab's shoulder. He made no attempt to make the gesture a chaste one - the side of his hand slid over the curve of Merab's body so that he could fit his palm over the rounded muscle of Merab’s shoulder. "I heard your friends talking about police and stitches - are you ok?"

Maybe he was more drunk than he realised - the words slurred together in a nervous jumble even as he tried to speak casually.

Merab gave him a strange look, then his eyes dropped to Irakli's hand on his shoulder and he shifted a little, though he didn't try and shrug his hold off. "I'm fine. It was Lika, a friend - she needed someone to stay with her while she got stitches."

"Yeah? What happened?" Irakli just wanted to keep him talking, to keep him near enough to touch, to see the gradients of colour in his eyelashes when he looked down coyly.

"A customer didn't want to pay; it got tense," Merab explained.

Incredulous, feeling the last chaser only start to catch up with him, Irakli asked, "Over a drink?"

"No." Merab shook his head. "She's not a bartender." He was almost smiling, sizing up Irakli as if to judge whether he was too drunk to understand. He told Irakli where she worked - the cruising ground at one of the parks, not a place Irakli had ever been, nor a place he expected Merab to have been.

He made a sound of confusion. "Your friend's a prostitute?"

He hadn't realised when, but Merab had slipped out from under his hand. He kept his arms folded and shivered, his shoulders rising to his ears. "Yeah - and?"

Irakli just blinked as he tried to parse this new information. It seemed like a bad idea, and a dangerous one, and he wondered what kind of people Mate had introduced Merab to. He thought again about David's worries and shook his head. He was feeling the alcohol too much to explain himself.

"And, I don't know? That's cool I guess," he said with another shrug.

Merab laughed silently at him, and Irakli stared longingly at the curve of his mouth when he did.

"How long have you been in the bar?"

"Ahh, I only had one," Irakli protested. "It was the ensemble performance. I went out with Luka and the others afterwards." He rolled his eyes and reached for Merab's shoulder again. "He's such a cunt..."

Merab just nodded and stayed still under Irakli's warm hand on his shoulder. "What was it like? The main ensemble?"

Irakli's heart surged with joy that Merab had asked him. He launched into all the complaints he'd wanted to make and shook Merab a little by the shoulder for emphasis. When he became animated, it made Merab smile, made his eyes sparkle - though he often looked down, reluctant to hold Irakli's insistent, needy gaze.

"Oh…" Irakli's passionate review petered out as he remembered what had followed the performance. "Shit, I heard what Luka and the others did to David. What the fuck? At his own wedding?"

Merab looked down and shivered. Irakli's hand moved over the curve of his shoulder, sliding down the sleeve of his t-shirt to the skin beneath, puckered with cold. Irakli could feel the little hairs on his arm standing to attention.

Impulsively, he reached out with his other hand and brought Merab closer, holding him against his chest. Merab didn't resist, but he remained tense, his arms around his own body, Irakli's arms around his shoulders. His face was buried against Irakli's coat, but Irakli felt the softness of Merab’s hair against his jaw.

After a moment Merab laughed. "Your jacket's freezing." He looked up and leaned back to pull away.

The prospect of losing him panicked Irakli, who freed a hand and pulled the zip of his jacket down, laughing awkwardly to hide his fear.

Merab watched him but didn't move any further away.

Irakli was starting to feel the night air chill his body before Merab stepped close again and folded himself between the open sides of Irakli's jacket. He kept his arms crossed between them, not holding Irakli in return, but pressing himself close as Irakli raised the edges of his jacket up around Merab's body, trying to enclose both of them in the same garment.

Merab's breath was hot against his collarbone, his hair smelling of the day he'd had, but also, unmistakeably, intoxicatingly of him. It made Irakli think of that first, frantic, fumbling night behind the kvevri - when he'd tried to kid himself they were just two guys messing around, when he'd tried to believe he didn't want to kiss Merab, to taste him and feel his gasps against his own lips.

Maybe Merab felt Irakli's breathing change, or heard his heartbeat quicken. He looked up at him and Irakli brought a hand to his jaw, feeling his way around taut muscle to the hair at the nape of his neck.

He angled his head, his eyes locked on Merab's lips, but as he prepared to kiss him, Merab sighed and moved his face away.

Dumbfounded, Irakli stared at him - at the pale blush of freckles over his cheekbone, his lowered eyelids, the hint of a day's stubble like gold dust along his upper lip and jaw. He wanted him so much, he wanted to cover each feature with kisses, to make him smile and moan and give him everything he had to give.

He wanted him so much he'd forgotten why he hadn't let himself visit the bar before then, why he'd deliberately avoided seeking Merab out.

Irakli closed his eyes and swore under his breath, stepping back from Merab's taut form. He held his hands away from him and then raised them to run his fingers through his hair. “Shit. Right, sorry,” he muttered.

Merab’s frown was as confused as it was accusatory. “I thought you were upset about Thomas. You never came.”

Irakli had taken a few steps back and he wanted to just turn and leave, stung with shame at both the moment of stupid lust and its rejection. He rubbed his bottom lip with a knuckle and shrugged at the ground. “Who? I don’t know. No, I just thought I’d be messing things up for you.”

“Did Ninutsa tell you something?”

Irakli glanced up at Merab’s sharp expression and sighed. He felt drunk and wished he’d just gone home after the ensemble performance. “Yeah I guess. You just seem to have a good thing going. I figured I’d only cause problems.” He took a couple more swaying steps backwards and had to steady himself with a hand on the bins. “You know, with your…” he made an empty gesture and shrugged. “Is it serious?”

Puzzlement dominated Merab’s expression now. He took a step towards Irakli, not letting him maintain the distance he’d tried to open up. “No,” he said simply.

Irakli’s hand tightened on the edge of the bin he was holding onto – that one word made him feel like he’d been kicked in the chest. He nodded as though the seriousness of Merab’s relationship with another guy meant nothing to him.

“What do you mean you’d cause problems?” Merab pressed, taking another step forwards, his scrutiny making Irakli laugh nervously.

He swayed a little, leaning hard on the bin, and he rolled his eyes to avoid the curiosity in Merab’s expression. “Ah, I just heard about the injury and stuff. I shouldn’t have – "

“Merab!”

The piercing call was undoubtedly Mate’s voice.

Irakli flinched and stepped away towards the end of the alley. He looked around, wondering what direction Mate would show up from.

“Merab! Maia needs you at the bar!”

“Anyway, I’m sorry,” Irakli muttered, barely meeting Merab’s eyes before he turned back to the main street. He heard Mate calling again and ducked out of the alley with a guilty glance towards the front of the bar. Mate was there, his blond hair lit by the bulbs under the awning, but he was facing in the other direction and Irakli picked up his pace to get away before Mate turned.

He fumbled a cigarette from his packet and hurried away from the centre of town. The fear of being caught with Merab was sobering, though not sobering enough. The feeling of holding Merab against himself lingered in his mind even as he told himself he'd probably just caused him new trouble with his colleagues.

Irakli tried to wrestle himself into acceptance of the situation: it was dangerous and foolish to pursue anything with Merab. David was right in some ways - Irakli wasn't like him, he didn't fit into those marginal spaces where the Mates and the Likas insisted on their difference. People looked at Irakli and saw a regular guy. They expected him to like what regular guys liked - the sports he'd chatted about with his colleagues in Batumi, the girls Luka talked incessantly about at the ensemble.

For Irakli to deviate from these interests was more of a threat to them than when someone they'd always considered strange simply confirmed their suspicions.

Irakli wondered whether Merab felt like a different person, split down the middle, in the same way that Irakli did as he swung between the safety of his own thoughts and the uneasiness of any other interaction. To Irakli, Merab seemed much as he'd always been: the same stubborn, confident, vulnerable, beautiful puzzle Irakli had found his attention drawn to when he'd first arrived at the ensemble. And he had the same unshakable certainty when it came to what he wanted, the same ferocious drive to do whatever was necessary to get it.

Irakli admired him, but he'd never wanted to be like him. He supposed his goals had always been more limited - his father's ailing health had loomed over his life for long enough. He'd learned to enjoy what he could get - when he could get it - and never to expect any more. It hadn't ever bothered him - it was just how things were, why make trouble by pretending otherwise?

Merab's hunger had awoken something in him that longed for more, though. The wrench of tearing himself away from Tbilisi, away from the audition, away from Merab in order to face up to his father's death and a new mantle of responsibility had been too much all at once. He wasn't like Merab, but now he found himself wondering how it felt to be certain like Merab was, to be brave like Merab was.

Grimly, it dawned on him that he'd probably never find out. He winced at the thought of Merab turning away from his kiss and tried to use that feeling to make himself glad he'd never see him again. It was a big enough city: he knew where he needed to avoid, he'd do as he promised and keep out of Merab's way, out of his life.

Irakli walked slowly through the cemetery and did not glance back at the city as he made his way home.


	48. Chapter 48

Irakli was engrossed in the highlights of the previous night's football when the phone rang. Rusudan went to get it and he only listened for his name - when he didn’t hear it, he turned back to the match. He drummed his fingers on the table beside his mug of tea and his knee jogged in his cozy grey sports trousers. He muttered frustrated encouragement at the striker as he watched him progress down the field.

He didn't listen to Rusudan's conversation - it was usually impossible to tell who was on the line by how she responded anyway. If it was important, they'd ring back.

The last thing he expected, as he leaned forwards and tried not to curse at a near miss attempt on goal, were the words, "Irakli, it's Elizabeth on the line. I know you prefer to call her from your mobile, but she says she wants a quick word with you now."

He turned and nearly knocked the tea off the table. "What?"

"It's your mother," Rusudan said with her encouraging smile. "She asked if you were here."

"She wants to talk to me?" Irakli stared stupidly at his grandmother.

Rusudan nodded. "Yes..." Her focus shifted to the phone as Elizabeth said something. "No, no, Eliko, he's coming. You know what boys are like when there's sport on..."

Irakli pushed himself up from the table and swallowed, but his throat was dry. He took a sip of cold tea and accepted the receiver from Rusudan.

He didn't know how his own voice would sound when he spoke and he turned towards the wall so his expression would be hidden from his grandmother. "Mum?"

The line hissed with silence, like the sound of the sea in a shell. Irakli wondered whether Rusudan had chosen to hear what she wanted, and his mother had said no such thing about wanting to speak to him.

"How's Dad? Are you ok?" He heard the tremor in his voice and clenched his free hand into a fist against the wall.

Her sigh crackled down the line. He tried not to hold his breath, but he didn't want to miss a word - that sigh was the most he'd heard from her in weeks.

"We're ok. Your father is stable."

He swallowed again. "Good," was all he trusted himself to say in response.

"Your grandmother says you're dancing again."

"Yeah." The word wavered.

Elizabeth's voice was flat, and he strained to hear any note of pride in her tone. "I see. It's respectable, I suppose."

Irakli didn't respond. She probably wanted him to let slip some detail about how he spent his days, who he saw, whether he was repentant, but he didn't have the energy for lying about that, for constructing a story she'd accept.

"Will you be ok for Christmas, Mum?" It wasn't quite an offer to go back. He winced at the thought of all the seasonal services, saints' days and gatherings at which he'd have to present himself if he were to go back. But maybe, he thought, he could send her a bit of extra money. Something cheerful or helpful.

He was startled by the speed of her response. "Oh, I prayed you would ask! You must come home. I've been discussing it with the priest. He thinks if you would just meet him, we could reach an understanding..."

Irakli bowed his head, huddling against the wall. "Mum..." He sighed.

"It's the perfect time. You remember how happy we used to be at this time of year?" She'd worked herself up to say her piece, and Irakli listened with his jaw firmly clenched.

"And what good is it sending me things? Who will I host? You don't understand how hard it's been for me. My friends all say it's my fault! What could I have done to stop this from happening? My friends, they all say we failed to raise you properly. Tamar even - she believes your father's illness is punishment for what you've done!"

He pressed his temple against the cold plaster and wished it would absorb him. So now he'd ruined his mother's social life, too. What was he even supposed to say to that?

"I'm sorry, Mum," he murmured it as catch-all.

"You'll come?"

He tried to imagine it, but all the scenarios made him flinch. He pictured sitting with his mother, eating satsivi off their knees over his father's sickbed; Elizabeth guiding him around church crowds, a possessive hand in the small of his back, trying to set him up with every mousey, obedient girl she could find. Her friends glad to accept her into the fold once more now she had proven she could assert control over her ungrateful son.

"No, Mum. I can't," he said.

Elizabeth drew in a sharp breath. It sounded to Irakli like she was holding back too much emotion to speak.

When she’d gathered herself, she said, "You won't come home for New Year?"

"I can't," he repeated. "It'll be good for granny to have company, though."

"Your grandmother!" Elizabeth exploded. "And what about me? Oh, you're just as stubborn as she is - refusing to leave that crumbling place, trying to pull me in two because she won't just come and live with me." She breathed heavily down the line, not sobbing, but not trying to hide her despair.

This was at least a more familiar topic to Irakli - his mother's dislike of the capital and his grandmother's refusal to leave it. He glanced up over his shoulder. Rusudan was sitting on the couch, serenely sipping her tea and gazing out of the window. He was certain she was paying more attention than she seemed to be to his conversation, but he'd been careful about what he said.

Rusudan's husband had gone missing during one of the wars that followed independence and she refused to leave the place she had shared with him, just in case he tried to find his way home. Irakli had always thought it was a reasonable motive for staying, but Elizabeth found the association with her own painful memories too much. It was a provocation to her, pure and simple, and showed that her mother cared more for her husband than her daughter.

Irakli had tried to walk a middle path between them, though he'd loved the capital since his first visit, and Rusudan's place had a warmth he missed at home. Elizabeth worried where Rusudan preferred to laugh - this approach of Rusudan's had always worked well for Irakli too, up until now.

"She shouldn't put so much on her poor neighbour." Elizabeth's anger faded and she sounded old, in a way that made Irakli shiver. "It's not right, it's not her neighbour's responsibility. What must they think of me?"

He wondered if she saw the similarities: how she had left her mother and now he had had to leave her. It seemed unwise to point this out, and, besides, Elizabeth had chosen to leave when she got married; she hadn't been forced out.

He knew it had been different for her, but still Irakli felt guilty, wretched with shame at all the ways his mother had been disappointed and hurt.

"It's all right, Mum. I know they don't mind. We'll see them at New Year. They always bring news from church for Granny. They're used to her."

"And what will you tell them about why you're there as well this year?" He couldn't hear the anger in her voice anymore. She sounded like she desperately needed a hug and he wished he could give her one.

"Just that I'm working here and we need the money. That you're busy enough looking after Dad and don't need me getting underfoot as well."

She was silent for so long he wondered if the line had cut out. Then he heard her sniff at a distance, as though she'd moved the receiver away to wipe her hand across her face. "How will I manage to crush all the nuts for the satsivi without my kitchen assistant?"

Irakli blinked at the stinging in his own eyes. Maybe it was the season and all its memories, maybe she had softened her position now she, too, was cut off from her friends, maybe Shota had been right and she had just needed to remember how to miss him, but for the first time he let himself hope that one day he might be able to go home.

"Mum..." He almost offered to go then. But he thought of the last time he'd been there to pack his bag, the praying and the weeping, the invocations of his father as though Vano's unconscious, wasting form might rise from the bed and force some sense into his dishonourable son. "You might have to make a bit less than usual this year."

He listened to her wipe away her tears again. "Tell me, my son, are you happy now?"

Irakli let his eyes follow the cracks in the blue paint that covered the wall. He leaned against it and glanced over at the door of his room, thinking about the two times he had followed Merab's sloping shoulders through there. "Sometimes, I guess," he murmured.

"Were you not happy at home?"

Had ignorance been bliss, when he'd been the other side of the country from Merab, left to his memories and nothing more? Irakli thought not, even though he'd learned that Merab was certainly better off without him, they'd had one more night together because Irakli had come back. It wasn't much, but it was more happiness than he'd had back home. He sighed. "No, Mum. Not really."

"I just want to help you, my love." She sounded plaintive now. The angry shield had been cast aside.

"I know," he said softly. "But not like that, ok?"

She resorted to her former cry of anguish. "I don't understand..."

He didn't exactly understand it himself. He'd long passed the point of being afraid or ashamed of what Merab made him feel - though he kept such things to himself, guarding them ferociously in the place where his chest ached, only examining them when he woke in the night, feeling his blood race in pursuit of memories. But he couldn't - wouldn't - explain it in whatever crass terms that understanding demanded. He just knew it had been good enough that he wouldn't want those nights taken from him. He knew that, if he tried to explain, he'd be challenged on every detail, so he protected the feeling from challenge, refusing to put it in words.

"I know, Mum," he said again. "It's ok."

He thought she took a breath to contradict him, but then she released it carefully. "I should go, or this call will get expensive."

He nodded, then remembered she couldn't see him, and swallowed the hard lump in his throat. "It was good to hear your voice. Give Dad my love."

"Yes. Yes, and it was good to hear yours. I will. Irakli -"

He waited - the relief he felt at hearing his name spoken in her voice was tempered by the wavering desperation in it.

" - Please think about it. Call me if you change your mind. I won't hang up."

He made a sound that was neither agreement nor disagreement. "Love you, Mum."

He held his breath, but after a pause she said, "I love you too," and he hung up with an unsteady hand and slipped into the bathroom, his back to his grandmother, so that he could compose himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Every time I think I'm done with the set-up, there seems to be more to set up! But I hope with the next update things will get moving a bit and boys-who-are-bad-at-talking will be forced to explain and admit a few things to each other. Thank you so so much to all who read this, I appreciate you all so much <3


	49. Chapter 49

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As ever, apologies for the wait for new chapters (what a year it's been since the last update huh?), and apologies for any crimes against Georgian culture (I mean New Year's, the food and traditions etc). I'm also going to go out on a limb and apologise on behalf of Irakli for him being a bone-headed idiot, but poor thing's had a rough time so cut him some slack. He'll come round.
> 
> _bedoba_ \- January 2nd, a national holiday as part of the New Year's celebrations in Georgia

Irakli and Rusudan went upstairs to celebrate the New Year with Rusudan's neighbour. Her extensive family crowded into the little apartment and the table barely held any space to lean weary elbows between the endless array of bowls and glasses. The feast began in the early afternoon and it lingered on all evening, buoyed by speeches and song and gift-giving and more bowls and more glasses, making the last hours of the year a blur of joy and celebration.

Rusudan glowed in the company of so many generations, recounting stories Irakli had never heard from her when the youngest children came to lean on the arm of her chair. There was enough to do that Irakli was able to help their host as he'd have done with his mother at home, and for moments he forgot about everything else in his life and just enjoyed joking with the neighbour's daughters and their husbands, as his hands were kept busy with chopping and stirring and washing, and the kids bounced off legs and counters as they ran around the apartment showing off their New Year's gifts and toys.

At midnight, Irakli helped the other men set off fireworks on the balcony, and they laughed and coughed among the clouds of smoke that warmed the night air. All across the city, the sky was awash with colour and noise; all the balconies flared and the silhouettes on them waved and cheered. Irakli felt the heat from the flares, he touched his glass of brandy to the glasses of the others on the balcony, called good wishes to people on the nearby balconies, and yet he sighed to think that its taste still made him think of events that happened _last year_.

Last year. All he had known of Merab was contained and locked into _last year_ , and it seemed like less when he thought of it like that, like it would be so much easier to lose those memories among the haphazard pattern of his life as it unfolded.

He was called to the phone. Someone had finally managed to connect the line to Batumi.

In the days since they had last spoken, Elizabeth had sent him his dance clothes. They had been meticulously repaired and cleaned, and now Irakli spoke to her on the neighbour's phone, his voice low with emotion. The flat in Batumi sounded so quiet compared to the bustle around him, and he apologised for not being with her.

She told him about the lights and the decorations in the city, about the music on the seafront and the snowy streets, and Irakli missed it all fiercely. She didn’t mention her friends, but she didn’t mention the priest either, and he felt like a weight had been lifted from his shoulders following their conversation.

Throughout the night, he danced and he sang with Rusudan's neighbours. He made an elaborate toast to them, particularly the woman who had done so much for Rusudan when Rusudan's family had not been with her. Gratitude was given and accepted freely, and the music flowed and took them through to the early hours of the morning.

He helped his grandmother downstairs to bed when she woke from her New Year's nap in an armchair, and he returned to celebrate for the rest of the morning with borrowed family.

He only left - laden with leftovers - when there were no more songs, when what needed to be tidied had been tidied, and the hosts themselves sat contentedly, peacefully amongst their relatives. He loaded the fridge in his granny's kitchen and lay down in his room, exhausted and utterly relieved that he was too tired to think about what changes a whole new year might bring.

The new year was meant to begin as you hoped it would continue - so far, Irakli thought it had gone pretty well. Not perfectly, but he'd kept himself busy, and now he let himself drift off to sleep. He dozed until the early afternoon and then went to check on his granny. Rusudan said they should invite the neighbours down in return.

"And feed them their own leftovers?" Irakli asked with a laugh.

Rusudan's chuckle matched his and she wagged a finger at him. "It's not about the food. The first visitor of the year is very important - it's a sign of how things will go for us."

"Sure, Granny, I know. I remember the year you wouldn't let Dad's colleague in because you didn't like his boots." Irakli rummaged in the fridge, looking for something suitable to cover the memory of the previous night's long drinking session.

He got out a family-sized khachapuri and began to slice it into pieces as Rusudan reiterated her distrust of men who wore Russian boots.

The kitchen was dark even in the afternoon, tinged with silvery light. Outside, the weather was damp, cocooning the city in a mist that kept the frost at bay. Irakli hummed one of the songs they'd been playing the night before and popped a cold, cheesy slice of bread in his mouth before arranging the other pieces on a plate.

When the door buzzer rang, he dropped the knife on the floor, cursing vehemently. He remembered suddenly, vividly, the way - _last year_ \- his grandmother had said Merab's name the day after David's wedding and he had dropped fig syrup on his jeans.

Rusudan peered outside around the TV. "Well! We have our first visitor already!"

"Who is it, Granny?" Irakli picked the knife up and placed it in the sink. He wiped his hands on his jogging bottoms and stepped over to join her by the window.

It was an awkward angle for seeing the front of the building, and the mist hung low around the apartment blocks. Someone was down there, though, and they had a bright plastic bag in one hand.

"Oh, go and see who it is," Rusudan said. "No one should be left outside in this weather. I'll look at their boots when they come up."

Irakli snorted and shuddered inside his oversized jumper but did as she asked. He nudged his feet into his sneakers and trudged out into the cold stairwell, descending one slow step at a time until he reached the heavy door.

He twisted the latch back and pulled the door inwards, shielding his body from the cold air with it.

On the threshold, fidgeting to keep warm, two hoods drawn up over his head, the red one from his jumper pulled tight so that it covered his mouth, was Merab.

Despite the muffling layers, Irakli could see him smile when the door opened. Merab stepped inside without encouragement and shut the door behind him, pulling it easily from Irakli's astonished grip.

"Happy New Year!" He swept the hoods back to reveal his chaotic hair, and immediately ran his fingers through it, taming it as he grinned at Irakli.

How could he not return that infectious smile? Irakli laughed. "Happy New Year...what are you doing here?"

Merab loitered by the door, holding onto the bag he'd brought, looking warily at Irakli. "Should I go?"

"No." _Shit_ , he hadn't meant to reply so quickly, so honestly.

Merab's smile returned swiftly, and he held the bag up. "Supper?"

As if the fridge wasn't already stuffed, Irakli gave another thankful laugh and beckoned Merab upstairs with him.

Inside the flat, Merab breezed in with a cheerful greeting for Rusudan.

"Oh! It's you." She leaned around from the kitchen table to peer at the doorway. "What a nice surprise! Did Irakli invite you?"

"No, Granny," Irakli admitted.

Merab laughed as he shrugged off his coat and rucksack, but he cast another surreptitious glance at Irakli, checking that he really wasn't mad, wasn't annoyed that Merab had taken it upon himself to just show up. "My dad's out at his friend's place so I didn't want to just go home," he said with a shrug, before walking towards the kitchen, asking Rusudan how she had been.

Irakli had no choice but to follow, bemused, feeling raw and vulnerable in the presence of this unexpected gust of warmth through the flat.

Rusudan smiled and raised her finger to tap at the air. "I know your name..."

Merab put the plastic bag on the sideboard and raised his brows. "Is that true?" He looked up at Irakli and pointed at the khachapuri. "Did you have plans already?"

"No, it's fine," he said without thinking.

"Merab!" Rusudan announced triumphantly.

Merab laughed with a delight that did something to Irakli. He couldn't have described it, it just seemed to find some place deep inside him and open it, and the feeling of whatever flooded out made his body tingle with heat.

Merab took out some cardboard containers and the smell of fresh spices filled the kitchen.

"What is this?" Rusudan asked. She gestured at Merab and looked at Irakli.

Irakli shrugged and Merab explained the things he'd brought: he used to worked in a restaurant and the women there had taken pity on him since he'd lost his job and started living with his father. They often set leftovers aside for him still, and the chef had prepared New Year's food for him to take home. But as Merab's father would not be in, he had decided to bring it where he thought it would be better appreciated.

Rusudan made a sound of interest and asked Merab why he lived with his father. He chatted about David's marriage and skimmed over the details of everything Irakli knew, describing the busy little apartment where he'd used to live - but it satisfied Rusudan, and she bemoaned the ease with which 'young people nowadays' gave up on their marriages, referring not to David and Sopo, but to Merab's parents. Still, she was plainly overjoyed when he set boxes of khinkali and lavash down on the table.

Standing by the counter, watching all this as though it were happening in someone else's life, Irakli finally found himself with a stunned and grateful smile on his face. He moved forwards at last to help Merab find condiments and napkins and he brought out a few extras from the fridge, including a carafe of wine from the neighbours.

He glanced across at the colour in Merab's cheeks and the rough edges he wore: shadows under his eyes that deepened when he smiled, and yesterday's stubble that he scratched at now and again. Irakli wondered if he was still a little drunk; his laughter came so easily and he sat purposefully close to Irakli, his thigh almost pressing against Irakli's beneath the table.

Irakli burned to ask him what he was doing there, why on earth he still wanted to see Irakli when nothing good could come of it. Instead he made himself tear at the flatbread in front of him, trying to remember to look away from Merab's face when he wasn't talking, feeling the muscles in his leg start to ache as he made himself sit still, neither moving his body towards nor away from Merab's.

While Irakli concentrated on these details, Merab and Rusudan happily made conversation about Eliava and about the restaurants Rusudan remembered. Merab was different from how he'd been the first time he had visited the flat, when he had seemed overwhelmed, quietly absorbing all he could about his surroundings. That shyness had been replaced by a confidence Irakli only partially recognised; he'd seen flashes of it over the weekend at Mary's, but, since then, he supposed, independence had come to suit Merab well.

Rusudan was telling Merab about the New Year's party - for the most part, she got the details right, though Irakli had to step in and correct a few names and relationships. "I still don't see why your mother thought you'd be more use here, though." She nodded at Irakli as she spoke.

When he flinched in response to the subject matter, Irakli was sure Merab would feel it, they were sitting so close. He shook his head at his plate, avoiding the care and curiosity in the eyes of the others at the table. "She doesn't want a big fuss around with Dad in the flat. It's good for her to have some peace," he muttered.

"That woman is a martyr," Rusudan said. "She can't be without her suffering..."

Irakli felt his neck and ears redden and he stared with determination at the bread he was tearing. He was sure he'd heard the exact same words in his mother's mouth as she bemoaned Rusudan's stubbornness.

He felt Merab's eyes on him like the lightest of touches, like fingertips across his cheek and down his neck.

After the meal, they sat with Rusudan for a while, but Irakli knew they would be alone soon. It made him nervous like it hadn't at all the last time - he was worried that Merab didn't understand what a mess Irakli's life was, and how he really ought to leave him well alone. He didn't relish the idea of explaining that to him - but was he afraid of the expressive way Merab's face revealed his hurt? Or was he thinking of the way Merab had pretended it was nothing to him at the wedding, drawing himself back, receiving Irakli's news with a casual _congratulations_?

As ever, Merab wandered into his room first and Irakli leaned back against the closed door. Merab's gaze lingered on the bed, but he glanced back at Irakli's awkward expression and didn’t sit down on the tidy covers.

"How's David doing?" Irakli asked, as though they were acquaintances who'd just run into each other on the street.

Merab pulled an appropriately sceptical expression but he shrugged and answered in kind. "He's fine. Sopo's fine. Everything's as usual back there."

"You came straight over from there?" Irakli kept himself fixed to the door. He felt like the room was full of dangerous currents and, if he let go, he'd be swept up in them and lost.

"Nah, I left at about two in the morning. People were getting tired and bickering. I met up with some friends and we hung out before I came over."

Irakli nodded and gave a nervous laugh. "Nice."

Merab's smile was sleepy and warm, but he stayed in the middle of the room, his hands in his pockets, his oversized hoodie like plumage fluffed up against the chilly air. He didn't look upset at Irakli's reticence, but he regarded him thoughtfully before blushing when their eyes met. Merab looked down, and the confidence Irakli had only recently identified seemed to waver as he echoed Irakli's awkward chuckle.

"How have you been? I wasn't sure if you'd be here, actually," Merab admitted.

"Yeah..." Irakli leaned his shoulders against the cold surface of the door. "Going home wasn't really an option. But our neighbours here are pretty nice."

With customary resolve and self-control, Merab made himself look directly at Irakli again. "What happened to you? You never said."

Irakli shook his head, hoping it would work as a warning as it had on previous occasions when he'd felt Merab's interest grow too bold, too personal. Now, though, he didn't have the excuse of David snoring away behind him or a party bustling in the next room, and Merab wouldn't be encouraged to look elsewhere.

"Did you get kicked out?" he asked baldly.

Irakli just shook his head again as he relented and looked away, stunned into a new awareness of how fast his pulse was racing as those memories resurfaced. "Nah, I left."

"Why?" Merab didn't soften his tone or his interest. He stood still and patient, his attention fully focussed on Irakli's averted face. After a moment, he added, with a hint of testiness, "I get it, you know. There's people you can't talk to now - family, friends. But you can tell me."

Irakli made a sound that he intended to be appreciative, though it sounded flat, caught in his throat. "Ah, I split up with my fiancée..."

"You told me that," Merab said quickly. "That's why you left?"

"No."

He didn't want Merab to take on any of the blame for what had happened - it wasn't Merab's fault that Irakli couldn't get him out of his head; it wasn't Merab's fault that he'd told his friends how much he missed dancing kintouri. But he saw the uncertainty, the anticipation of hurt that lit up Merab's eyes, and he knew that he couldn't avoid telling him any longer. Irakli sighed and leaned hard against the door. "I said something stupid when I was drunk," he mumbled, feeling the attempt at smiling at his own folly fade on his face before he'd finished speaking.

Merab was staring at him: wide-eyed, apprehensive.

"About you. About us. I missed...dancing..." He forced the words out, his shoulders rising awkwardly into a frozen shrug, his gaze glued to the floor.

After a pause, Merab asked, "What happened?" and Irakli was able to glance up to see the barely contained relief on his features. He still looked concerned, but he was actually pleased it had been him and not someone else that Irakli had gotten himself in trouble over.

Irakli blinked and almost laughed at this ridiculous situation: he was trying to protect someone who _wanted_ it to have been his fault? Because that was better than it being someone else's fault... He remembered his envy when he'd first overheard Mate talking in the bar the other week. How would Irakli have felt if Merab had injured his ankle and thrown away his audition because of unanswered messages sent to someone other than Irakli? Sick with jealousy, no doubt.

He told Merab that nothing else had happened that night. But whatever his friends had said to his mother had made her suspicious, and they'd not held back about telling the rest of the town. By the time he'd needed to go back into work - and he'd _needed_ to go, he insisted defensively - everyone in Batumi seemed to have agreed to judge him on a rumour he'd not had the energy to deny, and he'd walked right into the inevitable outcome.

He saw Merab's mouth pinch as he explained, his brows draw down in distaste at the word _inevitable_.

"Fucking pricks," he said.

Irakli swallowed the emotion that surged in his chest at the sound of those rough words, spoken in fierce support, coming from lips that Irakli knew were soft, that put the sun to shame when they smiled.

"Yeah," Irakli agreed unsteadily. He tried to disguise a sigh with a laugh and failed again. "My Mum's just really upset. I couldn't help out by staying, I couldn't, um..." yet again he ran into the source of his problems and winced. "I didn't want to pretend it had never happened."

That admission opened a chink in the armour of Merab's self-control; Irakli heard his breath catch from across the room.

Hastily, he sought to re-establish a sense of distance. "Look, anyway, that's in the past, so, um. It's ok. My mum's talking to me again now at least. Maybe I'll be able to go back at some point."

Merab bit his lip and his heavy eyelids dropped, so that Irakli couldn't read his expression clearly. "You want to go back?"

"Yeah - I want to see my dad, I don't want my mum to have to do everything herself!"

Chastened, Merab nodded. "Yeah. Of course."

It dawned on Irakli that Merab might want to leave now that he'd seen what a mess Irakli's life was, and he moved to the side of the door, so he wasn't blocking it.

Merab paced away from him though, and turned to look at his rucksack where he'd dropped it on entering the room. "I wondered if you wanted to watch a film, actually..."

It was so far from anything Irakli expected him to say, spoken with such softness that he almost thought he'd misunderstood and just blinked stupidly at him. "What?"

Merab shrugged awkwardly. "I've got my computer in my bag; I downloaded some new films from the internet at my friend's place. Just stupid action things, you know?"

Irakli couldn't honestly remember the last time he'd sat down to watch a film with a friend. Maybe this was how he should begin the new year: thinking of Merab as a friend, feeling rattled but not a little relieved by a moment of honesty, remembering how to do normal stuff like hang out with people and not second-guess himself the whole time...

"Sure, all right," Irakli agreed with a lopsided smile.

They set the laptop up on the chair by the bed and Irakli positioned himself at a careful distance from Merab on the covers. Merab respected the space he left between them, but still Irakli felt his stare, felt the air grow heavy with questions Merab was collecting anew. He pretended to be much more interested in the titles Merab had downloaded than in the weight of his body on Irakli's bed. He tried not to think about the potential for warmth and comfort that sat so close by, his knees drawn up to his chest, his mouth occupied with chewing his cuticles, when it could - Irakli knew - be occupied by far more interesting activities if he'd only signal to Merab that he was interested.

He wouldn't do that; he wouldn't make any more trouble for Merab than he'd already done.

Irakli disguised his discomfort by talking and joking incessantly through the beginning of the film. Merab tolerated it with admirable good-humour - far better than Zinaida or Shota or any of Irakli's friends back home would have done. He laughed quietly at the stupid comments Irakli made and he seemed to be impressed or interested by Irakli's recognition of minor American character actors in a way Irakli thought he really shouldn't have been. It didn't help Irakli's efforts to act nonchalant, because he started chasing the sound of Merab's responses.

At last, he made himself settle into silence, and Merab did the same. Irakli passed him a cigarette and they sat staring at the screen, neither of them particularly invested in what they were watching.

It was a better start to the year than he'd expected, so why couldn't he put his frustration aside? All he wanted was to lean over and settle his head against the strong curve of Merab's quads, to close his eyes and let Merab's fingers play where they wanted to in his hair and over his body. Instead, he inhaled smoke quickly through clenched teeth, stared blankly at the glowing screen of Merab's laptop, and told himself it was better if he just let Merab get on with his own life.


	50. Chapter 50

It was early, as far as night-time went. Irakli stubbed his cigarette out in the ashtray that lay between them on the bed - it was like a sword in some medieval tale, enforcing the distance between their bodies.

Merab had fallen asleep, his arms around himself, his knees drawn loosely up to his chest. He leaned sideways, balanced precariously as his body tilted in search something to lean against – something that wasn’t Irakli. His hands were tucked inside the sleeves of his hoodie and his hair fell in soft curls over his forehead...it made Irakli's fingers itch as he thought about pushing those autumn-coloured strands aside, counting the freckles on his forehead, kissing the shadows under his copper-tinged eyelashes.

Instead, he sat forward carefully to close Merab's laptop and glanced back at him again. The sight of Merab looking so peaceful in his bed made Irakli bite his lip, his expression filled with mournful regret.

He could wake him - or he could let him sleep. Merab's life seemed so full in contrast to his own that Irakli wondered how often Merab really let himself rest. Burying the selfishness of his motives, he acknowledged his protectiveness: he wanted Merab to sleep well, he wanted him to not be disturbed. If Irakli particularly wanted these things to happen in his own bed, that was beside the point.

Touching him gingerly, Irakli guided Merab by the shoulders until he lay nestled on his side, and then he pulled the covers out from beneath Merab's tucked legs and drew them over his body. He felt vindicated in the care he'd shown, because Merab barely stirred and didn't make a sound. He squirmed once against the mattress, stretching out a little, his face nuzzling into the sheets.

Irakli watched him settle, saw the golden chain of his necklace pour out of his collar, saw the links of metal at the back of his neck tangle in soft red curls. His mouth was equally soft, pressed heavily against the bed.

Irakli didn't undress, but he climbed beneath the covers and lay rigid, facing Merab and taking care not to touch him or shift the mattress more than he had to. His heart was hammering hard enough that he was sure he would never be able to settle or sleep, or that Merab would hear it and wake. He delayed switching the light off, though, and lay with his hands under his head, still as he'd been at the vineyard with David snoring behind him, almost forgetting to blink or breathe as he watched Merab sleep.

Could Irakli figure out what hold Merab had on him if he studied him carefully enough? He'd had to close his eyes before, horrified by the threat of being noticed by David, knowing that when he looked at Merab he couldn't control his expression, still dazed by what they'd done and how good it had been. And then, the last time they'd been in his room, he'd been submerged in a haze of fulfilment, just content to be as close to Merab as he could be, to feel the comfort of skin on skin and someone breathing warm and steady in his arms.

Now, he let his nervous gaze roam, felt his forehead crease with a deepening frown. Merab had come round to clear the air maybe, or just to hang out. Maybe it had been no more than the buzzing curiosity that had led Irakli to his bar the other week. But, beneath it all, there was still a caginess about him that Irakli couldn't fathom, something protective and withdrawn and not at all like his memories of the hopelessly open, guileless way Merab had been before.

Irakli had to reach up and put the light off to stop himself staring, to give his hands something to do other than imagine the smooth warmth of Merab's neck, the textures of his necklace and the slight growth of stubble on his jaw, the intimacy of tucking his fingers into the collar of Merab's hoodie. He couldn't stare in the dark; instead, he listened to Merab's relaxed breathing and let it lull his eyes closed. Fully clothed, with another body in the bed, he was warm beneath the covers and it was easier to fall asleep than he expected.

Irakli dreamed frantic dreams. They were behind a kvevri and kissing with competitive fervour and Irakli was aware as they did that someone was coming. Instead of pulling away, it seemed important that he finish what he was doing first, and he tried to gather Merab to him as Merab did the same, trying to hold Irakli closer in turn. They tussled over who was holding who, their kisses growing messier until they tumbled into the dirt. Irakli broke away first at the sound of someone calling Merab's name - instinctively, he knew it was the American boyfriend he'd never met. He covered his mouth with the back of his hand and moved beyond Merab's reach, getting to his feet and running into the woods without a backwards glance.

Beyond the trees, he found himself pushing through a crowd, catching glimpses of red hair, of Merab's smile as he turned to someone walking next to him. He looked relaxed, oblivious to Irakli's efforts to catch up with him, but when Irakli stopped trying to go forwards and let the people flow around him, buffeting his shoulders, Merab turned back. He saw that Irakli had stopped fighting to get to him and his smile faded, leaving Irakli feeling wounded by the distance between them.

Irakli remembered Merab leaving Mary's car after the weekend at the vineyard, and the need he'd felt to reassure Merab that he didn't have regrets, that he was determined he'd see him again soon. He'd flung himself across the empty backseat at the last moment before Mary pulled away, and leaned out of the window. "I'll see you tomorrow, Merab!"

The car seemed to lurch as Irakli lent out - or was that his stomach flipping at the way Merab's face lit up? - and he opened his eyes in the dark with a sharp intake of breath.

He wasn't in the car, desperate to see Merab's grin as he turned towards home, overcome with the need to let Merab know he didn't regret a thing. He was in his own bed, and he'd been jolted by the movement of the mattress.

It took him a moment to figure things out as he lay there on the edge of the bed, blinking into the formless shadows around him.

Merab had woken up and tried to climb over Irakli to get out of the bed. The mattress sank beneath his hand - pressed down beside Irakli's shoulder - and his knees, which rested down by Irakli's hip, where his escape had been arrested when Irakli stirred. As he'd moved, Irakli must have reached out in his sleep: his hand cupped Merab's body, inveigling its way beneath his clothes, resting at the waistband of his jeans as his t-shirt and hoodie hung down over Irakli's body. The touch had made Merab pause, poised above him halfway towards leaving, and Irakli heard his breathing quicken.

He stayed still, feeling Merab's proximity in the pitch darkness.

"What time is it? Are you going to work?" Irakli murmured as casually as he could.

The darkness remained still and silent, but Merab leaned a little into Irakli's hand on his hip. "I was just going to move to the chair," he answered. His voice came from somewhere closer than Irakli had expected, and he tilted his own chin in response, waiting for his eyes to adjust, looking for the glimmer of Merab's own eyes close by.

"Ah, you don't have to - you'll freeze," Irakli said lightly, reflexively, an easy-going smile on his lips that he hoped Merab could hear.

"Mm." Merab made a soft sound in his chest and Irakli's hand moved along his waistband, back and forth a few inches, his thumb travelling lightly over the skin above his jeans. He let the gesture continue as though he couldn't stop it, despite the knowledge that the touch had gone beyond something neutral or platonic, beyond the thoughtless touch of one who was half-asleep.

He sensed Merab was close: he could feel his breath on his face, could feel his weight on the mattress shift slightly.

It felt like his dreams had merged with reality. Time and consequence were absent in the dark room, and, when he felt Merab's sigh on his lips he was already craning his neck, searching for the incoming kiss. Wordlessly, mutually, their mouths met and Irakli's hand travelled up underneath Merab's t-shirt, smoothing along his spine, his fingers grasping for the firm warmth of his shoulders.

They pulled at each other's clothes in a way that was too methodical to be rushed: their tops and jeans fell away, layer by layer beside the bed, and Irakli shivered even as Merab's hands cupped his jaw and his skin pressed hot against different regions of his body.

Irakli's senses felt raw, on edge in the darkness: he was submerged in the sounds of their kisses, his body humming with vibrations as he let out a groan of pleasure into Merab's mouth. His hands wanted to be everywhere, mapping the edges of Merab's movement, following the rocking of his hips, the pulsing tension in his muscles as he pushed himself close, waging a ceaseless war against the air that got between their bodies.

If Irakli tried to lean towards him, to prop himself up on his elbows, Merab insistently pushed him down again.

One of Merab's hands slipped low, his fingers running over Irakli's chest and belly until he held Irakli's cock. He gave it a few quick strokes, but Irakli had been hard before they'd even got each other's clothes off, when he'd felt Merab's erection through his jeans as he kissed him. He understood why Merab had been trying to move to the chair - and why it had been so easy to persuade him to stay.

Merab rolled his weight against Irakli, pushing his own cock against Irakli's. He guided both of them together in his cupped hand as his hips came down again and again like the tide on the shore and Irakli bucked helplessly beneath him.

He felt like he should be doing something more, but there was nothing else to do with Merab above him: his mouth, his hand, his hips working together to wipe Irakli's mind blank. All that was left was to hold on with everything he had, one hand behind Merab's head, deep in the tangle of his hair, the other grasping for purchase wherever he could find it.

They came with their noses pressed together in the dark, a kiss that dissolved into gasping almost-words, with Merab's eyelashes tickling the skin of Irakli's cheek as his face tilted over him and his balance wavered. Their breath carried sounds neither of them managed to hold back, soft but ragged, warm, wet air shared between them.

Irakli held him and kissed him again and again so that Merab would understand how appreciative he was. The darkness that had roiled about them only moments ago seemed to still and settle into a heavy calm. He reached off the bed to grab an item of clothing to wipe their bodies clean, and Merab's hands found his in the dark and held them, guiding Irakli’s touch as he rubbed their skin with the t-shirt.

It was easy to settle together, their legs twining, sweat covering their skin like condensation on a windowpane. Irakli pushed his face into Merab's chest and breathed heavily, devouring the smell of him, his lips parted against the salty surface of his body.

The nagging sensation that he'd fucked up again grew in the back of his mind and he tried to hold it at a distance, hoping he could just simply slip from dreams to those touches in the dark and back to dreams again, all without facing up to anything. Merab didn't try to talk about it either, but he nuzzled his chin into Irakli's hair and shuffled against the pillow. He held tightly to Irakli, his arms around his shoulders, letting go only to pull the cover back over them. Irakli heard Merab breathing in a measured way, trying to settle his own pulse, trying to ease himself back into sleep and away from admitting to having done precisely what they'd wordlessly been avoiding the previous evening.

Dimly, Irakli felt a spike of guilt: he should have woken Merab after the film had finished and given him the chance to go home. It was his fault for thinking they could share the bed as friends, fully-clothed and chaste. And he'd stopped Merab from leaving just then, too.

Cursing himself, he burrowed deeper against Merab's body. He thought to himself that if Merab tried to leave the bed in the morning, to sneak away without a word, Irakli wouldn't stop him again - it was what he'd have done; he would understand it. He lay still and pretended to be asleep until he actually was.


	51. Chapter 51

When Irakli woke, it was a gradual process as he rose from a depth beyond dreams or overthinking. It took him some time to figure out that, in actual fact, Merab had not left, and the two of them had barely moved in the hours that had passed. His face was still turned into Merab's chest, his forehead against a plane of muscle, one of his arms hooked casually around Merab's waist.

He thought for a moment that the window must have been open behind the shutters and that a soft winter breeze had crept into the room. He felt something move his hairline, a rumour of touch, too careful to be what he'd thought it was. After a moment, Merab's fingertips settled on the edge of his ear and circled around the outside, his touch as gentle as it could be. He sought out the textures of Irakli's hairline, of his jaw and ear - warm fingers running over warm cartilage - and paused to feel his way around Irakli's piercing, like he was reading braille in the contours his touch discovered.

It stung something deep in Irakli's chest and he tried to keep his eyes closed, to lie still as though he were still asleep. He wanted Merab's fingers to stop teasing him, for his hand to open and cup the side of his face, for Merab to shift and nuzzle Irakli awake and kiss him until he forgot all the reasons why this was a bad idea.

Merab must have felt his jaw tighten because his hand retreated.

Irakli opened his eyes, a worried and apologetic tension fixing his expression into something that Merab reflected with a frown of his own.

"Morning," Merab murmured.

Their bodies were still tangled together, legs braided one on top of the other, too much skin against skin for Irakli to figure out how to apologise for the mistake.

"Morning," he said quietly.

Irakli looked away first and pulled his legs from beneath the warm weight of Merab's. He rolled onto his back and ran a hand through his hair, staring at the peeling paint above them. He had no idea what time it was - between the late night, the early morning, the daytime nap and dozing in front of the film, he felt thoroughly rested and his body was heavy and listless. He didn't want to move. He needed a shower. He felt cold as soon as his body wasn't touching Merab's.

Merab shuffled against the mattress and seemed to lean in again, so Irakli sat up. He rubbed his face in his hands and glanced regretfully over at Merab's questioning expression.

"Ah, I'm sorry..."

His words stilled Merab, who did not sit up himself, but lay on his side and tucked his hands protectively beneath his head.

"What?" he asked warily.

"That shouldn't have happened. I'm sorry," Irakli repeated, though he couldn't address the words to Merab directly. He stared across the room, as though if he avoided looking back he could undo the night's indiscretions.

Merab was silent for a moment, but when he asked, "Why not?" his voice was steady.

Irakli let out a sigh that shuddered through his body. His back felt vulnerable, facing Merab as it was. "Look, it's just a bad idea - what about your American?"

Merab's reply was quiet, but firm. "He went back at the end of the semester. We broke up."

"I'm sorry." Irakli's turncoat heart seemed to do a somersault at this news and he bit back a curse, shifting towards the edge of the bed, still not looking back.

"It's nothing," Merab said simply. Irakli could hear the shrug in his voice. "What's wrong with you?"

Irakli laughed, but it was empty: a thin, breathless sound that made it seem more like he'd been punched. He shook his head and balked at the open path in front of him. "David's right - I'm not like you."

"David? You told David?" The mattress shifted with Merab's movement. He'd probably propped himself up on one elbow. His chain would be hanging down over his breastbone, his hair would be a messy cloud around his sleepy expression.

Irakli felt his chest tighten. He stopped himself from glancing back - only just. "Yeah, I - look, I didn't know he'd had the shit kicked out of him because of it then."

Merab made a sound - "Hm" - and Irakli realised that by admitting he'd told David, he'd admitted, yet again - indirectly - that it had meant enough for him to say something about it.

Emboldened, Merab's fingers ran a feather-light touch down Irakli's spine.

Irakli didn't move; he didn't know what else to do.

"What do you mean, you're not like me, anyway?"

That was the question, wasn't it? Irakli chuckled drily and shook his head. He'd always thought of Merab with a kind of bemused awe - ever since he'd first seen the intensity with which he danced, the seriousness with which he took the things that were important to him. That feeling had turned into something reverent though, and it made him feel wretched because he felt like a cringing, unworthy supplicant - he didn't deserve all that Merab was offering.

Irakli moved uneasily away from Merab's touch. "Look, you've got it all figured out - you've got your job, your friends. I don't want to mess that up for you."

"Why would you mess it up?" Merab murmured.

Irakli closed his eyes. He wanted to tell him to stop being so generous, to take his sympathy elsewhere, somewhere it might do some good.

"Because that's what I do. Because I'm a coward," he snapped.

For a moment, he thought he'd managed to get through to Merab, but then the bed creaked and Merab's arms wrapped warm around Irakli's waist and his cheek leaned rough against his back, his hair tickling Irakli's skin, his kisses soft and soothing.

Desperate to make Merab see that he would only end up hurting him again, Irakli refused to respond to the affection. "I can't do what you do," he said stiffly. "I have to think of my parents. This is all just...temporary."

Merab leaned his cheek against Irakli's shoulder blade and sighed. "Do you know why I don't go to the apartment much now?"

"Hm?" Irakli responded, letting the feeling of Merab's body against his own steady his breathing, even as he thought about standing up and pulling away.

"My granny has no idea, but she asks so many questions when I'm there. I know she's disappointed - by everything. And if she found out..." Merab's sigh made the little hairs on Irakli's skin stand up. "I don't know what it would do to her."

"Yeah. I know what that's like," Irakli said bitterly.

Merab lifted his head from Irakli's shoulder and his arms loosened a little on his waist, his hands sliding round to rest on Irakli's hips. "You're not the only person going through this, you know. You should come and meet some others."

Maybe it was jealousy of these friends of Merab's - people who Irakli imagined had more in common with him than he did - jealousy of the time they got to spend with him, the fun they got to have together. Maybe it was jealousy of Merab for having a group of friends like that, but the offer made Irakli scoff. "Thanks. I don't need to be part of some victims' club..."

That, at last, made Merab's hands retreat - as quickly as if they'd been scorched - and he shifted to try and see Irakli's expression. "Yeah?"

Hastening to bring things to an end, Irakli pulled on his underwear and jogging bottoms and stood up to light a cigarette. He tossed the packet and the lighter onto the bed by Merab, who ignored them as Irakli paced away.

"Sorry," Irakli ground out the reflexive apology, but he didn't turn back. "I just think you can do better than me." He forced some of his previous cockiness into the words and managed to laugh convincingly.

Merab was sitting in the middle of a pool of rumpled bedcovers, his legs crossed, rubbing his eye-socket with the heel of one hand. What Irakli could see of his expression was a grimace, and he shook his head and clenched the fingers of his free hand into a frustrated fist. Under his breath, with the kind of aborted laughter Irakli had perfected so well himself, he muttered, "Oh, fuck you..."

Irakli chewed the inside of his bottom lip until he tasted blood. He watched Merab throw the covers away from him and move to the edge of the bed. The sight of his legs unfolding - honey-toned, sculpted by years of strict practice - to be displayed against the pale covers like an artwork, made Irakli's breath catch, and he turned away again to cough on the smoke held in his throat.

After a moment, Merab swore again and Irakli looked back to see him half-dressed, inspecting his t-shirt - the unfortunate garment had been the first thing to come to hand in the darkness when Irakli had reached out for something to clean them both up.

Wordlessly, Irakli went to the cupboard and took out a neatly folded t-shirt of his own. He passed it to Merab, and checked it only when Merab paused as he reached out, his expression a sudden tangle of grief. The top was just some cheap white one with a beach pattern printed on it - Irakli had a few like it - they'd been unsold items from Zinaida's shop. He couldn't understand the effect it seemed to have on Merab, but was about to offer another when Merab finally accepted it and pulled it on with an unsteady sigh. He fiddled with the collar and surreptitiously breathed in the smell of it.

Irakli looked down at him. He wanted to apologise again, but more than that, he wanted Merab to understand that Irakli was doing this for his sake. There was no point in Merab sticking around with Irakli when he had no idea what the future would bring, when Irakli felt as though he had less control over the future than ever before. It wasn't just about taking what he could, when he could get it, like it had been last summer. It seemed to Irakli that Merab's life now offered him the chance of more than that, while Irakli couldn't imagine such things for himself at all.

As he tried to think of a way of saying this that wouldn't just cause more damage, the phone in the corridor let out a shrill ring. He heard Rusudan call that she would get it and leaned down to stub his cigarette out in the used ashtray.

Irakli put his own top on and watched Merab do up his hoodie, not listening to Rusudan's voice outside his room as he struggled again for the right words to explain.

"Irakli!" Rusudan knocked on the door and both men flinched. Merab sprang off the bed and kicked his t-shirt under it; Irakli reached a hand out to stop the door opening if Rusudan tried it.

"Yes, Granny?" He winced at the vibration of nerves in his voice.

"Irakli, you should come to the phone. It's Elizabeth; she has news about your father."

Irakli swore and felt an immediate tremor in his hands. He leaned his head against the door for a moment to compose himself and sensed Merab's concern nearby.

With a swift, apologetic glance at him, Irakli slipped out into the corridor and took the phone from his grandmother.

"They've taken him back into hospital," Rusudan murmured.

"Mum?" Irakli cradled the phone to his face and curled his shoulder against the wall in anticipation of her voice. "What happened?"

Elizabeth sounded tired and strung out. She'd been woken by sounds from the machinery in Vano's room and did not know what was happening. She'd called an ambulance and now Vano was back in the hospital, hooked up to the same stuff, which clicked and beeped as it counted out the time he spent in a private ward. Elizabeth had paced the hospital corridors, determined not to sleep, wringing her hands and praying.

"I'll come now; I'll get a bus as soon as they're running, Mum." Irakli forced the words out past his tight throat, pressing the side of his fist against the cold wall. He couldn't stand to hear her like this; she sounded as confused as his grandmother sometimes did, like a lost child.

When she answered, a sharp clarity came back into her voice, but it didn’t reassure Irakli. Instead, it left him chilled, bent towards the wall, one arm leaning against it above his head so that the shadows made a tent over his face.

"Don't. Do not come here. You mustn't, everywhere I go people are saying it's no wonder you -" She cleared her throat, the sound somewhere between a sob and a sigh. "It's because you didn't have a good influence; your father didn't teach you properly. It's already too much for me, Irakli; I can't have you here getting into trouble as well."

The flare of anger he felt was almost like an afterthought, like the last glint of the sun on tower block windows as night fell. "It's such bullshit, Mum!"

"Don't swear. Is this really how I raised you? I can't tell where I went wrong." It was a thoughtless, automatic response, weary and uninterested in Irakli's answer.

"What can I do?" he mumbled reluctantly.

Elizabeth wasn't really interested. He could tell her thoughts had returned to Vano. "Talk to the priest; Irakli, talk to Zinaida and Nikoloz. Prove to the people who talk like that that they’re wrong. Or tell me they're right and your parents let you down and now you're sick. If there's a cure, find it. Then come back."

He thumped the wall half-heartedly with the fleshy edge of his clenched fist and swallowed the jumble of defensive, desperate words he might reply with, none of which would help.

"Will you tell me if anything else happens?" His own voice sounded like an echo to him, impersonal and uncertain.

"Of course. I’ll call."

He sent his love, though the phrases felt like sand in his mouth, dry and uncomfortable, out of place. All he wanted was to go back to his room, wrap himself in the covers, and try to go back to sleep.

No, maybe he'd smoke a cigarette first, drawing as deeply as he could until his eyes stung and he could blink away the wetness on his lashes and say it was only from the bite of nicotine on his nerves and not from anything else.

The tone of the dead line buzzed from the receiver while he gathered himself to push away from the wall. The plastic handset felt heavy and unwieldy in his shivering fingers and he had to replace it slowly and draw a deep breath before looking up.

In the kitchen, Merab was following Rusudan's instructions with a showman's flair and a proud smile on his lips. She told him where to look for cutlery and when the drawer turned out to contain spices, Merab set a jar on each side of her plate with a laugh until she laughed too and pointed at another cupboard.

Both of them stopped laughing when Irakli appeared in the doorway, pale and grimacing.

"Are you ok?" Merab asked.

"Oh, my poor boy. Will you go to Batumi now?" Rusudan looked up at him.

He shook his head minutely. "Mum says there's no need to go." He moved automatically to get out the other breakfast things and Merab watched him, wary and serious and trying hard not to get in the way.

"Shall I go?" He glanced between Irakli and Rusudan.

"No, stay, stay." Rusudan reached out to grasp the cuff of his sleeve and give it an encouraging shake. "You're what we need in this flat right now, so kind and full of cheer. The ideal New Year's guest."

Still, Merab hesitated until he managed to catch Irakli's eye and see the slight softening of his expression, the merest whisper of a smile at the edge of his lips.

Despite Rusudan's hopes, the breakfast was silent and sombre. Irakli drank some black tea, but didn't eat what was on his plate, and he felt Merab watching him, brimming with his ever-present questions, ignoring his own food in favour of studying Irakli.

Time blurred until Irakli found himself standing in his bedroom again, his hands in his pockets, his eyes on the floorboards between his feet and Merab's. Merab had asked him again if he was going back, and Irakli wrestled with himself, trying to decide which answer he could give him. He had to move carefully, had to speak carefully. Everything seemed to hit him with the force of a blow - Merab's smile, his frown, his words, his silence - and Irakli didn't want to make the morning any worse for either of them by losing control of himself.

"I can't go back," he said. "My dad's going to die in the hospital and I can't go there because the whole town thinks I'm broken, I'm sick, I've let my parents down." He was surprised that it was anger that let him get the words out in the end: there was a tremor in his body that came through in his speech, and he realised that his anger had grown broad enough to swallow up the whole of Batumi. He berated himself still, but he wanted to shake every person who had spoken to his mother about him, every friend who had abandoned her - and him - for the sake of public opinion. He wanted to shout in their faces that what they were interfering in was none of their goddamned business.

Merab's arms were folded and he was tense and white-cheeked. It made Irakli notice that the shadows under his eyes were fainter than they had been, that his freckles were darker than the stubble that roughened his jaw.

"What bullshit," Merab said quietly.

Irakli meant to laugh and tell him: _yeah, that's what I said, too_. Instead the laugh rebounded inside his chest and he felt suddenly like he had when he'd swallowed mouthfuls of the sea as a child. He raised his hand to his face to catch the sound that broke from him, and as he tried to clamp down on the tide of emotion, he felt an ache in his body like the blade of an axe.

Merab came to him immediately, though Irakli cringed around the pain, his shoulders hunched and head lowered. He gripped his own body to hold it together, but Merab's touch was soft and careful on his arm.

When Irakli did not pull away - he couldn't trust himself to move without howling - Merab's hands fluttered, emboldened, up Irakli's biceps and made their way around his back. He pulled him close, all that softness backed up by the strength that still blindsided Irakli. Merab hummed some wordless reassurance and held Irakli's body so that, breath by breath, Irakli remembered that he would not simply shatter apart like a dropped glass.

He let himself hold Merab in return when he thought the pain in his chest couldn't get any worse. He buried his forehead against the rumpled fabric of the hood lying on Merab's neck and shoulder and steadied himself against the buffeting of his emotions by hooking his fingers into the cloth that covered Merab's back. He didn't cry, not really, and he didn't know how he managed to stop himself - he felt like a tyre that had been overfilled and was in danger of bursting. Everything hurt and he knew it would hurt less if he let himself cry, but somehow it would be one betrayal too many when it came to his father's lessons about how he should behave. Women cry; men drink and sing. Women get emotional; men do something to fix the problem.

Merab's hand supported the back of his head and his fingers pushed soothingly against Irakli's hairline. He let Irakli's bruising embrace pull him off balance and did not complain. He murmured impossible promises - "It'll be ok" - and swayed a little until Irakli's swayed with him and steadied his pulse with deep, gasping breaths of Merab's scent.

He didn't know now how to step away. It seemed like an age ago when he'd been trying to break it off with Merab, to get him to leave and move on with his life. Now, Irakli shuddered at the idea of letting go of him. Merab's hold responded to his, and when his arms tightened fearfully, Merab's arms tightened against him, too.

But it was Merab who moved to break the embrace first, and Irakli stifled a gasp, thinking this was what he needed to brace for anew: Merab had been about to leave, and now he would make good on that decision. Irakli raised a knuckle defensively to hide his face, to itch at the scar beneath his eye, and he kept his gaze lowered.

Merab's hands lingered on his body, though, not letting Irakli flee. He simply tried to meet Irakli's eyes, but, when his efforts were thwarted, he still did not move any further away.

"Look, they're not victims - my friends, I mean. They're people who won't think any of this is your fault. I think you should meet them."

It wasn't what Irakli was expecting, and he clenched his jaw as he tried to figure out how it related to the fact that his dad was dying and he couldn't be with him.

"It's not your fault," Merab repeated, and Irakli sensed that he was trying to convince himself of something even as he said it - there was uncertainty in his tone, but determination in his hold on Irakli and in the way he still tried to meet his eyes.

How could he even know what was or wasn't Irakli's fault? He didn't know how things had been in Batumi, how they were now. Then again, perhaps this was simply the forgiveness Irakli had craved – and once that thought occurred to him - it was a slippery, quick thing that he couldn't quite control – he could not shake it, and when he glanced up at Merab's face he felt it grow stronger.

He nodded as though he understood. "Sure, yeah, I know," he said unconvincingly.

He leaned back as though he were about to take a step away from Merab, but he didn't move in the end, and just let Merab's fingertips remain on his biceps, his own arms folded over his belly, his eyes wavering between the floor and Merab's face. "I guess you've got to get to work anyway, sorry."

Merab's smile was fonder than it had any right to be. "It's a public holiday, remember? Not even Eliava's open on _bedoba_." He dropped his hands to his sides, then moved them to his pockets, then his armpits. He fidgeted nervously. "I'll go, though, if you want."

The feeling from earlier, the urgent need for Merab to see that Irakli was trouble and to leave him and alone save himself, crumbled. That hug had undone all of Irakli's feeble arguments and left him unable to play the martyr any longer. He wanted to be held like that, to obliterate everything else and live only within the folds of something simple and good.

His mother had told him to find a cure, but the only cure he knew for how he'd felt since last summer was the sound of Merab's laughter and his peaceful breathing when he lay in Irakli's arms in the dark. If he couldn't go back home without publicly renouncing these things, Irakli couldn't imagine going home.

"You don't have to go," he said very quietly.

Merab blushed and chewed his bottom lip to stop his smile growing too wide. "The film we watched last night has a sequel, I think."

"Yeah?" Irakli smiled and was surprised he was still able to. The memory of the call with Elizabeth still hurt, but the pain had gathered into a manageable core he could hold inside himself. "You didn't even see the end of that one."

Merab shrugged, his own smile lopsided. "You can tell me what happened."

In response to Irakli's minute nod, Merab ran his hand up his arm again and stepped close. "I'm sorry about your dad," he murmured, not quite leaning his head against Irakli's, but hovering near, so his hair brushed the skin of Irakli's cheekbone.

Irakli closed his eyes and closed the gap, nuzzling against Merab as he let out a sigh. He clipped his arms round Merab's waist and pulled him near with sudden, grateful need. Truth be told, he didn't much care about the film - he'd have stood there instead, with Merab held tight against him, for as long as he could - but it was a good way of explaining to Rusudan why Merab was staying longer.

They went to the kitchen and gathered the things they hadn't managed to eat for breakfast from the fridge. Rusudan tutted with a smile and said they shouldn't stay indoors all day, but they ought to begin the new year with fresh air and activity. Irakli accepted her chiding and kissed her forehead with a promise to go outside later.

Merab leaned against the counter and helped himself to the hazelnuts he'd scooped up in one hand from a serving bowl. He described the films they were watching to Rusudan while she responded, merrily aghast at the descriptions of Hollywood plots, and Irakli shook his head at the two of them winding each other up.

Irakli stirred a pot of thick Turkish coffee on the stove and then paused and closed his eyes when Rusudan said cheerfully, "How nice; you're like brothers. I always thought it was a pity that Irakli was an only child."

Irakli felt exhausted already, and this simple comment made him clench his jaw. He met Merab's glance briefly and saw Merab's lips curve wryly, though there was something sad in his eyes.

"He's better than my own brother," Merab told Rusudan boldly. "Never hogs the bathroom or steals from my pockets."

Irakli forced himself to laugh as he turned and poured three cups of coffee out. "You've got low standards," he said sardonically.

Merab just smiled.

They went back to Irakli's room and settled on the bed, surrounded by plates on the briskly tidied covers. Irakli still wasn't that hungry, but the Turkish coffee was comforting, and he enjoyed watching Merab suck pomegranate juice from his fingers as he asked Irakli what had happened in the film after he'd fallen asleep.

Irakli recounted what he remembered from the previous night. He kept thinking of the empty apartment in Batumi, though. He imagined his father being bundled from the bed by hard-faced paramedics as his mother wept and tried to pack her bag for the hospital. But if he seemed distant, Merab persisted, and Irakli was grateful for his efforts at distraction.

Merab leaned forwards to press play and then, with a questioning glance at Irakli, shuffled closer. Irakli was going to raise his arm and invite Merab to curl against him, but Merab wrapped his own hold around the small of Irakli's back and Irakli let out a laugh as Merab pulled him close. He had to make himself small to fit under Merab's shoulder and knew it would have been more comfortable if Merab had settled against him instead, but he couldn't rebuff Merab's stubborn gesture. Instead, Irakli shifted to lay his head against Merab's legs, as he'd imagined doing the night before. Through the denim of his jeans, Irakli felt the warmth of Merab's thighs against his cheek.

Merab's arm adjusted around his body as Irakli lay down, but his other hand could not remain at peace. Irakli sighed softly as he felt Merab's fingers come to rest against his temple before they began to stroke along his hairline. The touch came with such unfamiliar tenderness that he felt his eyes prickle suddenly and had to blink back the feeling. He moved his head to shake off Merab's fingers but smiled up at him reassuringly. "How can I concentrate on the film when you're doing that?" he murmured.

He was barely able to concentrate anyway: Merab's answering smile was such a combination of mischief and sweetness that Irakli couldn't get it out of his mind when he turned back to the screen. The ache of being away from home, away from his father in what might be his last days, away from his mother who so badly needed his help, hadn't gone away, but now it blurred with the addictive yearning he felt around Merab and, if one didn't exactly cancel out the other, it at least made the guilt and the helplessness seem finite.

When Merab couldn't still his fingers any longer and began to softly comb Irakli's hair a second time, Irakli closed his eyes and tried to accept the comfort in it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Progress? Progress! And it only took 50 chapters...


	52. Chapter 52

They wound twisting routes through the Armenian cemetery, cigarette smoke blending with the mist that still hung over the city. Irakli felt strangely exposed now that he and Merab walked a few inches apart, playing at being mere companions as they passed by the judgemental frowns of headstones and looming monuments. The mist made Irakli's hair damp and he resented its efforts to wash Merab's touch away, but the feeling of the fresh New Year's air was still invigorating. The cemetery smelled of wet trees and gunpowder from the recent fireworks.

Irakli kept thinking of the time his dad had taken him to watch the ferry come in down at the port in Batumi, only to find when they got there that the fog on the sea was too thick and the ferry was being redirected further up the coast to Poti. Determined that this essential father-son time should not be cut short, Vano had marched them round to a friend's garage and borrowed a rusting, belching old Lada so they could drive to Poti for the arrival of the ferry. He'd let Irakli have a go at driving it once they'd got beyond the city, and Irakli remembered his knees shaking with fear and excitement as he'd worked the loose clutch, sitting up as straight as his thirteen-year-old frame would allow so he could see over the steering wheel. Vano had slapped a heavy hand on his knee and said, "Cars can sense fear, just like animals and women. You're in control."

He let out a sudden laugh and shook his head at the memory.

"What?" Merab looked at him, his satisfied smirk wavering for a moment.

Irakli glanced at him and felt his smile widen. It had always been easier to tell Merab about the stuff going on back home; he knew he wouldn't get the pushback or disgust he'd expect from the likes of Luka. So he told him about the day he'd been remembering: about how they'd arrived at Poti nearly two hours later only to find the fog even thicker and the ferry's arrival delayed by another night. Vano had walked them brusquely around the outskirts of the port, hoping to find some tourists who needed to get to Batumi - but of course, any tourists there were, were still on the ferry, waiting off shore. Eventually Vano had given in to his son's stoic but miserable silence and bought sweet coffee and pastries which they'd eaten beneath a forest of cranes while Vano gave his assessment of the construction sites they could see. Then he'd driven them home, they'd returned the car, and Irakli had watched him lie to Elizabeth about all the fun they'd had in Batumi.

Irakli had had fun though, at least until he had started to get cold and feel the damp through his woollen coat as they stood on the industrial seafront. Now, he laughed as he told Merab about the way Vano had approached a group of people he had supposed were tourists, whose response, though given in Russian, had been purely local: they'd offered Vano a few tetri to get him to go and beg elsewhere.

Merab laughed at the story as well, and the sound had the healing effect that Irakli had come to crave.

Irakli didn't need to say that he missed Vano as he'd been then, nor that he missed him now. He knew Merab understood that much.

Grateful that he'd been able to share the memory, Irakli lowered his head and shouldered Merab playfully as he'd done all those months ago when they'd climbed the hill together after a night of dancing, drinking and emerging realisations. Merab remembered, too, and his delighted laugh made Irakli's heart clench.

But it was what Merab said next that nearly floored Irakli, who had to stop so that he didn't trip over his own feet.

"So, if you're dad's back in hospital... If you need any shifts at the bar, just for a bit of extra cash... I can ask my boss. I'm sure he can find something." Merab's hands were in his pockets and he raised his shoulders almost to his ears.

Warmth flooded Irakli's body, and he nodded at the ground and took a long drag on his cigarette. "Thanks," he murmured at last. "That could be helpful."

They returned to the little apartment and Rusudan asked them whether the walk wasn't better than sitting in a stuffy room all morning watching silly rubbish on a screen. Irakli summoned a playful riposte, pointing out her own daily routine, and Rusudan chuckled. Mock offended, she told him that her TV shows were educational, that she sat by the open window for her fresh air, and that she was even thinking of picking up her embroidery today, if her joints would let her work.

Reluctantly, Merab admitted that he should get back to his dad's place - the fridge was empty and he'd promised to get some essentials on his way home. Irakli was already retrieving dishes from the New Year's feast, sharing out the bounty that he and Rusudan would never have managed to finish alone.

Irakli didn't hurry to snatch kisses from Merab when they went to get Merab's laptop from his room. He kissed him like he was a teenager who had figured it out for the first time, who couldn't get enough of the taste and the feeling of that other set of lips against his own. Merab's hands opened and closed against his collarbones, grasping fistfuls of his t-shirt and feeling all the contours of Irakli's bones and muscles.

Merab’s attitude was triumphant, as though he'd won something between them, and Irakli supposed he had: he hadn't managed to persuade Merab that this would be bad for him, that Irakli wasn't worthy of his attentions. Instead Merab had insisted on staying in his life, mulishly present, as deeply rooted as the memory of him had been when Irakli was back in Batumi.

Merab wrote his mobile number on the same bit of paper that had the address of the bar on it that Irakli had kept tucked in the back of his cupboard behind the folded shirts. They didn't promise anything to one another out loud, but Irakli didn't worry about whether he'd see Merab again soon. They wouldn't be able to leave each other alone for long, he knew - it was enough of a struggle to watch him walk out of the door with their secret in his smile, with Irakli's t-shirt hidden beneath his hoodie and jacket.

_Easy_ , he told himself wryly as he sat down at the kitchen table and watched Merab through the window. He disappeared into the darkening afternoon with a spring in his step and a glance back at the window, and Irakli smiled impulsively around his unlit cigarette.

Rusudan was also watching Merab leave and she cocked her head. "What a nice boy! How did you meet him again?"

"Dancing, Granny." Irakli laughed.

"But he works at the market..."

"Yeah, but he used to dance," Irakli reminded her. Explaining Merab’s theatre group to her didn’t seem worth the confusion it would cause. But, god, he'd love to see him dance again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much to everyone who's reading along or who just pops by now and again <3 I can't say how much I appreciate the lovely things you've said and I hope these updates continue to bring you something good. Progress has been slow recently, but there's fluff and dancing and happiness to come (even if I still have more angst up my sleeve).


	53. Chapter 53

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a reminder for anyone who needs it, because I know I kept forgetting: Christmas in Orthodox Christian countries is 7th January, so New Year's happens first.  
> And a _tseruli_ refers to a kind of dance where you use your big toe a lot I guess, but I'm not entirely sure, it just came up in a vocab list I was using. If anyone knows, hmu! XD

Merab was talking at a million miles an hour, his hands moving constantly as he spoke with intense, earnest seriousness. He'd been practising - hard. His hair clung in sweaty, dark patterns to his neck and forehead, his skin was bright with perspiration under the stage lights and his loose dance clothes stuck to his body in uneven patches.

Ali, who was a good few inches taller than him, bent forwards a little as he concentrated on what Merab was saying. In his pale jumper, with a script tucked under his arm and his hand thoughtfully stroking his neat, black beard, he looked every inch the consultant weighing up a thorny patient.

Seeing them, Mary sighed and dropped her bag and coat noisily by the theatre entrance. Poor Ali spoke excellent Georgian, but when Merab was fired up like this she knew it could be a lot to parse. As she approached them, Ali looked up at her and smiled; Merab glanced her way, flicked his fingers in a cursory greeting as he moved his hands, and continued to talk. He was describing some idea he'd had about the dances that Ali wanted to use during scene changes in the play. He was using terms from traditional dance that made Ali's eyes go wide and glazed as he tried to understand, appear impressed, and work out a way of interrupting and asking for more detail all at once.

"Merab!" Mary had no compunctions about interrupting him. "Ali doesn't know what a tseruli is!"

She turned to Ali with a smile and ignored Merab's tutting. After asking the Azeri director how he had been over New Year's and exchanging further pleasantries, Mary steeled herself to enquire about Merab's new plans.

She'd expected this to be a quiet session, barely a rehearsal at all - she knew Ali wasn't going home for Christmas; none of the Islamic holidays that he or his family celebrated fell at this time of year, so Mary had persuaded Merab that whoever was around should meet up between New Year's and Christmas just so Ali wasn't lonely. It was just meant to be the three of them and a vague, sweet girl called Lela, who had grown up in an orphanage and whose husband was working through the holiday - she said she preferred coming to theatre group to being alone at home. Mary had imagined that they'd read through a few bits of dialogue and maybe check how the dances mapped onto the stage, but that mostly they'd eat the spiced pastries her aunt had made and talk about the New Year's fireworks.

Instead, something had fired up Merab's imagination and now Mary watched him demonstrate the changes to the routines he'd pictured, and she felt her skin prickle with the energy of it. He'd enlivened his dances for the scene changes and turned them into a series of narratives, making a simple story out of the representation of different regions of the country. Mary recognised some of the new shapes his body formed, but from the lessons they'd taken together. These were his own embellishments, many of which she'd first seen in that pointed audition for the main ensemble. Still, Ali was impressed, even Lela made a sound of approval, and it was agreed that Mary would work with Merab to develop these vignettes.

When they finally sat down to read through the script and enjoy the food Mary had brought, talk slowly drifted onto their holidays and away from the play. At this point, Merab turned quiet and disinterested. Mary described her father's place in the mountains to Ali and Lela and promised they'd come to her birthday party in summer and see it for themselves.

"Oh," said Merab. "Do you know who Sopo wants at her birthday? David has to book a restaurant."

Mary smiled awkwardly at Ali and Lela, who did not know Sopo and David. "We'll talk about it later," she tutted at Merab.

He shrugged and fell silent for the rest of the conversation.

Ali was already worrying about his mid-terms, and Mary pretended she was worried about hers too - actually, she'd forgotten about them over the break, even though she'd taken her books out to the countryside with her. Lela asked Merab about his family celebrations and he responded cautiously as Mary half-listened in - he'd seen his mother, grandmother, brother and sister-in-law and it had been nice. But he didn't like staying long, and he'd also wanted to see his friends.

As they gathered to leave the building, Mary rushed her goodbyes with Ali and Lela in order to catch Merab by the elbow and walk with him towards the bus stop. "Hey! Tell me all about it, then; I haven't seen you for ages. How's everyone doing in the apartment?"

His smile was easy, despite his earlier intensity. He held his arm out so that Mary could huddle closer, and when her elbow linked with his, he hugged it tightly to his body. "They're all fine. You know what Nona's like; she's decided Sopo should be treated like a queen now and not be made to do anything. She even got David to help out with the cooking."

Mary pulled a face. "And you all survived?"

Merab just laughed.

"How's Thomas? Did you get to call him on New Year's?"

"No..." Merab looked at her strangely, then laughed again. "Oh, I didn't tell you - no. We broke it off."

Mary blinked. "What? Oh, Merab, I'm sorry!" She squeezed his arm, her voice full of worry, though Merab himself seemed totally unconcerned.

"It's nothing," he said softly, still smiling, and offered her a piece of gum with his free hand. Her face must have revealed her shock, because Merab rolled his eyes. "It's fine, Mary! He was always planning on going back - it wasn't a surprise..." He shook his head at her expression. "Did you think I was going to go with him?"

She blushed and Merab's lips twisted in a smirk.

"Mary..." he chided. "It's like you and David want to get rid of me!"

"No," she said, exasperated and embarrassed. "We're just worried. Why would you want to stay here?"

"Pff." He looked up and laughed again. He really wasn't fazed about Thomas leaving. In fact, Mary didn't think she'd seen him looking so cheerful, so thoroughly at ease, for a long time.

"It's not like we live in Chechnya.” He shrugged.

She nodded and made a sarcastic sound of agreement. He always had answers like this now: _It's not as bad as it is in Chechnya - you should be worrying about them; it's not illegal; trans women have it worse_. She guessed it was the kind of thing his friend Mate said, and she worried he was growing to like the way Mate and his crowd refused to live a quiet life in the shadows and instead baited people with their flamboyancy and outspokenness.

But Merab looked over at her with a fond expression. "Besides, I've got some pretty good friends here. Why would I want to leave them?"

It made her blush again, and Mary bit the inside of her lip, wondering when she'd grow out of the response.

"Tell me how your New Year's was." Merab nudged her. "Has your mum forgiven you for going up to the vineyard for it?"

Mary groaned at the reminder of her mum's disapproval, but she told Merab about it as they walked past the bus stop and wandered towards a kiosk selling mulled wine. He was as sympathetic as he ever was, but he seemed to grow distant the longer she talked, his thoughts wandering elsewhere. Eventually, Mary brought things back to Sopo's birthday, which Merab had mentioned during the rehearsal.

"Nino should be there, obviously, and the other girls from the ensemble. I don't know who else, though?"

Merab dropped his gum in a bin and blew at the surface of the hot drink he’d bought. He was frowning thoughtfully behind the veil of steam. "Yeah, I said that. Do you, um. Do you think she'd want Irakli to come?"

Mary slapped her forehead with the palm of her free hand. She swore - how could she have been so stupid? Of course that was it...

"Mary, come on..." Merab sighed.

She gave him her best approximation of one of her mum's disappointed looks but said nothing, and found her lips pulling up into a smile despite her intentions. He looked so desperate to talk to her about it, but he wouldn't do so if she was mad. She reached out and squeezed his arm again.

"Is that a yes?" He hid the worry in his voice, but not his expression.

"Sopo likes Irakli, of course she'd be happy for him to come. Didn't he and David get on really well, too?"

Merab nodded distractedly, but he was looking down into his drink with a soft, secretive smile.

" _Tell_ me, then!" Mary had to prompt him with an impatient laugh. "So? Are you two together now?"

Merab delayed his response, his smile widening as he took a drink. Then he shrugged enigmatically and blushed, and Mary was glad to see that it wasn't just her who still did so. "I don't know. Maybe. I guess. I think I persuaded him to give it a go."

She tried not to sound too incredulous, but the words slipped out nonetheless. "You persuaded him?"

Merab rolled his eyes and scoffed. "Yeah, not like that...he wants to, he's just...he wants to be careful." Mary could see him sift through exactly which details he was willing to share. "Irakli thought that everything that happened last year with the audition was his fault. He thought I was mad at him, I guess." Merab fidgeted in the cold as the January night descended around them, and tucked his chin protectively into the collar of his coat.

"You should have been," said Mary, because she knew that was what he was expecting and he had another eye roll already prepared. "I mean, he didn't handle it well, did he?"

"Akh..." Merab muttered dismissively and took another sip from his drink, avoiding her eyes. They took a pair of seats on a bench near the river. The wooden slats were coated with the layer of condensation that preceded a frost.

Mary's knee jogged impulsively and she tried not to push Merab for more information, even as she questioned the motives and the practicalities on both sides. After all, Merab never thought about these things, and her college courses were teaching her that she was pretty good at weighing up conflicting information. She wondered, briefly, if she'd ever reach a point where she wasn't reflexively looking out for Merab as she'd done since they were kids.

"His dad's really sick," Merab said suddenly, with a softness that made Mary sigh too.

"I'm sorry for him," she said shortly, but she meant it. Fresh from the love and the extravagance of New Year's celebrations at her own father's home, Mary shuddered at the thought that anyone her age should face losing that.

Merab picked at the paper cup in his hands, unpeeling the rim with his thumb as he frowned down at it. "And his mum doesn't want him to go to Batumi. It's all gone horribly for him back there. I feel bad about it, you know - if it wasn't for me..." He shrugged loosely as Mary eyed him.

Mary took a deep breath and let it out slowly, trying to figure out what to say as she gulped her warm, spiced drink. She could hear in Merab's voice, could tell by the way he fidgeted guiltily with his cup that he was both pleased to have had such an enduring effect on Irakli and truly worried that he was responsible for whatever trouble Irakli had got into.

"I don't think you should feel bad about that," she said firmly. "How can it be your fault?"

"But you think it's his fault that I got injured and left the ensemble..." Merab returned quickly.

She gazed at him with reproach. Maybe he was right, but she wouldn't defend it. "No, not exactly. I just think he could have considered his actions a bit better. It's just...are you both just doing this because you feel guilty about something?" She pressed her lips together: she hadn't quite meant to be so direct. Merab glared at her, and Mary shrugged and took another sip of wine to stop herself from apologising.

"Why can't you just be happy for me?" Merab complained, and Mary tried to avoid the hazel eyes searching her expression, primed to draw that apology from her if she looked into them too long.

"I am!" She shrugged again.

Merab tutted at his cooling cup of wine. "How often do I get a second chance like this? To get what I want for once?"

Mary sighed and felt the fight go out of her arguments at his tone: it might have been petulant, but it was heartfelt, too, and she knew better than almost anyone what it had meant for him to leave behind all those years of training and ambition, the expectations and dreams. She leaned against his arm and made a sympathetic sound.

"I _am_ happy for you," she repeated. She kept the caveats to herself this time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A couple of things I just wanted to emphasise that I'm not being flippant about: things in Chechnya are _dreadful_ for LGBTQI+ people (there was a documentary about it this year, [here's a review, but CW mention of awful violence and sexual violence](https://www.theguardian.com/culture/2020/jun/23/welcome-to-chechnya-harrowing-film-regimes-gay-purge-david-france-lgbt?ref=hvper.com). I haven't been able to bring myself to watch it yet), and also for trans women in Georgia. You can find out a bit about the latter [here (discussion of sex work and violence)](https://globalvoices.org/2020/03/07/no-place-for-transgender-people-in-georgias-labour-market/) and [here](https://www.openlynews.com/i/?id=7adb3aef-213f-48d1-affb-08f4f336a286&fbclid=IwAR0KTcrrZENh_OusPSLeT6tx8R9bkmOlDZxesvClYHFl3Sa1J7zJMQ3JYxg) (both pieces includes the contribution of Nata, who's in the film <3 ) - and I'm posting this update the day after some pathetic little creature burned a poster in Tbilisi that had been put up for the Trans Day of Remembrance. And, like the words I put into characters' mouths here, I'm not saying that one struggle invalidates another, or that there's a hierarchy of suffering, but imagining reasons Merab to want to stay and stand up to this kind of bullshit.


	54. Chapter 54

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dancing! _Dancing!_ DANCING!!!

Irakli had a quiet Christmas, shared with Rusudan alone. He diplomatically avoided the neighbours' invitation to join them at church, and instead went for a long jog through the solemn outskirts of the city, high on a ridge that looked down into the river valley. The windows of all the buildings were bright with candles, the night was unseasonably warm, and when he ran he didn't need to think about anything other than his body, moving one leg and then the other, filling himself with the night air and just keeping going until he knew he'd be tired enough to sleep through the marching and the singing that would fill the streets following the Christmas service.

Afterwards, Rusudan sat at her window and listened to the city celebrate while Irakli buried his face in bedclothes that smelled of Merab. He would see him again at Sopo's birthday in a few days' time, and he could feel the anticipation of it building to something beyond his control, a hungry, impatient thing that was barely appeased in the meantime by the feeling of the old, soft pillow he held to his chest.

Elizabeth had called nearly every day since _bedoba_ , with little news to share. Zinaida's sister had heard about Vano through her friend who worked as a nurse, and Zinaida had brought Elizabeth satsivi and sweets in the hospital. It reminded Elizabeth of all that should have been, and she tried yet again to change Irakli's heart on the matter. But he remained as stable and stubborn as Vano, who lingered in his peaceful state until the doctors began to talk about returning him to his home once more.

On the night of Sopo's birthday Irakli felt as nervous as he'd done at his first public recital. He tried to be nonchalant about his clothes, but met his own eyes in the mirror as he tucked his red shirt into his trousers and untucked it again, did up a button at the collar and then undid it again, and fiddled with his hair.

"Are you ridiculous, or what?" he hissed at himself.

But still he checked the neatness of his shave and confirmed that his earring was clipped together tightly at the back. He tidied his bed and refolded Merab's clean t-shirt that lay on it, smoothing the creases out of both before realising that he was wasting too much time and needed to leave if he wasn't going to be late.

He ran out of the door with a farewell to his grandmother, still flailing to get his jacket on. He stopped to buy a bottle of wine on the way, then remembered that Sopo couldn't drink it and stood agonising over the selection of chocolates at a kiosk. Finally, he grabbed a frost-browned bunch of flowers and smoked at a frantic pace as he rushed towards the address of the restaurant.

People were already tucking into an array of starters, busily catching up with the festive news amidst the warm chatter and percussive tinkle of cutlery and glasses. Irakli gave the room a vague, blanket grin, forcing himself not to look for Merab, and he sidled over to where Sopo and David sat at the centre of a long table, with their families on either side of them.

Sopo stood up, despite Irakli's protestations, and flung her arms around him.

"I'm so glad you could make it!" she laughed. "Did you have trouble finding the restaurant?"

"Akh, yeah, something like that." He handed her the flowers. "You know I'm always late." He raised the plastic bag with the wine bottle in. "Sorry, I got this, and then figured it wasn't the most appropriate gift."

Sopo snatched at the handles and peered inside, wide-eyed. "Ah..." she gasped, her smile sparkling. "I'm saving this! Only a few months..." She rubbed her belly and rolled her eyes.

"What's that?" David leaned over the back of his chair and nodded up at Irakli. They shook hands, and Irakli thought the formality was hilarious, but David was serious and stiff around his in-laws.

"It's a present for me," Sopo warned him. "I'm going to ask Nona to hide it somewhere so you don't open it when you get home from work, and I'm going to have it all to myself when this nightmare is over!" Her long eyelashes flickered and she glanced around in alarm, but only her mother had caught what she said, and Sopo shrugged at her scandalised expression. "I mean - when I get to celebrate the new arrival, _mayr_ ," she added with a simpering smile.

Irakli let himself look around on the pretence of finding a free seat, and finally caught Merab's eyes. He was sitting at the edge of the family group between his mother and Mary, with Nino, his grandmother, and an empty chair opposite him. His smile was crooked and broad, and it only shone brighter when Irakli grinned at him.

Sopo grabbed his arm and turned to where he was looking. "Oh, yeah - there's a free space over by Ninutsa. Is that ok?" Her wicked smirk told him that she knew it would be.

"Well, I arrived late. I'll take what I can get," he joked as she ushered him on his way before sitting down heavily again.

Nino stood to hug him too, and Inga Deyda called her greetings across the table, as did the other girls from the ensemble, who sat further out from the family, on the end of the long supra table. On the other side of Irakli's empty chair sat Merab and David's grandmother, who smiled coyly and invited Irakli to sit. He asked after her in the way he knew she found charming and was only slightly chastened when he glanced up and caught Mary's narrowed eyes and cool, small smile.

Next to her, Merab did a bad job of hiding his pleasure. He nudged her and murmured something and, with some effort, her expression softened. "Hi Irakli, how have you been?" she asked crisply.

"Ups and downs." He raised an eyebrow and couldn't suppress his smile. Irakli knew how to behave around these people, even if he felt a quiver of vertigo when he recalled how many of them knew about him and Merab already. But he was too happy to be around so many familiar faces, to be sitting down to a good meal with good conversation, with Merab so close by, looking immaculate in his dark suit, his hair in an orderly auburn sweep above his forehead. He was happy to be among company that did not expect him to be the kind of guy he had to be at the ensemble, around Luka, or at home, for the sake of abstract metrics of honour and reputation. He felt drunk before he'd even touched his wine glass, giddy with the thrill of good company.

His cheer rankled Mary, and Nino's laughter aggravated her further, but she was trying to avoid being drawn into conversation with Merab's mother or grandmother, so she listened to Irakli's stupid stories of wedding dances and New Year's chaos at his neighbour's flat and - eventually - Irakli managed to wring a genuine laugh from her as he described the celebratory dance that had ended up with one of the hosts tripping over the _chichilaki_.

Merab was quiet, watching and listening and engaging in muted conversation with Nona and Inga Deyda. He fidgeted with his collar and tie, smiled tightly and seemed to have an array of unspoken signals that Mary looked out for so she could interrupt Grandmother Nona or distract Inga Deyda at key moments. He never mentioned Ioseb or the market, and talked in cagey terms about the theatre group, with Mary backing up whatever he said.

He seemed resigned rather than pleased when there was a lull in the feasting and the toast-master - Sopo's uncle - invited the men to move some of the surrounding furniture to facilitate music and dance. Some of Sopo's family members produced instruments from beneath the table, behind chairs, corners of the room, and they arranged themselves to play.

Nona gestured at Merab without even looking at him, calling down the table in her dry, strident voice: "A duet, a duet! Merab and Mary were the perfect couple - it would warm my heart to see them dance again."

Mary glanced at him, but Merab was slipping his jacket off obediently as Inga Deyda helped him, and Irakli caught his eyes as he undid his tie.

Pinned between fascination – not for the first time, Irakli wondered what it would be like to undo that slippery satin knot himself - and shock - the idea that Merab would ever be reluctant to dance for his family chilled Irakli with a suddenness that probably showed on his face - he just gestured a wordless toast to Merab. It was meant to say _you've got this_ , but he wasn't sure Merab picked up the genuine current of feeling behind it.

Merab and Mary took their places for the Adjaruli and Irakli shook his head at Nino's playful suggestion that they join them. He watched Merab nervously, and only relaxed again when he saw the way he moved: whatever unspoken pressure had been needed to get him onto the dance floor, once he was there he was as beautiful to watch as ever. With no Aleko to tell them off, Mary smirked and Merab laughed, and as she stepped daintily around the floor Merab circled her with all the fluidity and buoyancy of a silk veil caught in the wind. It wasn't what traditional dance was meant to be, but Irakli watched him and was left hungry, fascinated and awed.

Nona applauded proudly and even Inga Deyda's smile widened. Afterwards; Nona pointed to David. The kintouri was her command now; she wanted to see both her sons dance.

David flat out refused, and no voice could have moved him save that of his wife. Sopo took pity on him though, and hushed her family members. She squeezed the back of David's hand. "What about Irakli? He's in the ensemble," she suggested, fixing Irakli with her playful dark eyes from down the table.

Irakli laughed bashfully and hid from the request by taking a gulp of wine. He tried to demur, but Nino shook his arm and Mary returned to stand behind her seat, her hands on her hips, her lipstick-painted mouth in danger of curling into a smile.

"Go on - someone will have to keep Nona happy," Mary murmured.

Irakli finally shrugged and raised his hands. "All right, all right..." But he was smiling as he crossed the floor to stand opposite Merab - and Merab's eyes lit up in response. Irakli made a small fuss of needing to limber up before the dance and the difficulty of doing so in his smart clothes, and it made the people at the table laugh. It made Merab shake his head and chuckle too, and soon Irakli was sure that David's gruff refusal had been forgotten.

The drum began - _one two three, one two three_ \- and then the other instruments clattered to life as Irakli and Merab circled one another with long, exaggerated strides. They played the roles of cloth merchants, swinging their arms, bowing low, strutting with their chests out. Like the first time they'd danced the kintouri together, Irakli found it easy to keep in time with Merab: they met each other's eyes and that was enough to be sure that the rest of their bodies followed along.

All the tension that Irakli had noticed in Merab earlier in the evening had gone: he was thoroughly caught up in the dance, lost to everything in the room except Irakli, his smile widening as sweat gathered on his skin. They danced as close as the extravagant movements allowed, and Irakli didn't know who increased the tempo, the musicians or them, as they anticipated the moment of touch where their arms reached out and wrapped around each other.

He felt the strength in Merab's arm and shoulder beneath his hand, his warmth...Irakli's grip slipped beneath the loose sleeve of his t-shirt and his fingers pressed tight into skin. Merab grinned at him, and Irakli knew his own expression was also dumbfounded with joy. Merab's enthusiastic movement pulled Irakli to one side as they danced, the imbalance exacerbated by their height difference, and Irakli laughed as he had to lean towards him.

"Have you tried the bottle dance?" Irakli asked him between the energetic movements.

Merab shook his head briefly, concentrating hard on the moves, though his lips curved in delight.

"Ok, we're going to give that a go..." Irakli told him as they stepped back and the tempo of the music slowed in preparation for the next part of the dance - should they choose to perform it. Those in their audience who knew what to expect began to clap along when Irakli, arms out, smile wide, glided across the open floor to the table and retrieved a full bottle of wine from it.

He swept back across the room and for a moment felt dizzy when he looked at what he was approaching: Merab was standing in a ready pose, watchful with anticipation, his eyes alight and his hair in disarray from the dance. He'd discarded his shirt and tie and, with his pale t-shirt tucked into his smart trousers, the shape of his waist and the curve of his back were emphasised. The t-shirt collar hung crookedly against his sticky skin and Irakli could see the glint of his necklace beneath it.

Apparently, Merab didn't notice Irakli's momentary pause to gather himself, to swallow his heart back down as it seemed to push up, hard, against his throat. Merab just laughed and shook his head at Irakli's showmanship and when Irakli came close and performed a few steps for him to mirror, Merab did so, but muttered over the music, "It was David's dance, I never practised this bit!"

"You just make really small steps, keep it small, keep your body strong, it doesn't take much to impress people with it, honestly," Irakli smiled persuasively and held the bottle out.

Merab took it and grinned as he tried to settle it on his head. He was suppressing laughter, and he was a restless mover at the best of times, and every time he tried to take his hand away the bottle wobbled.

The room continued to clap good-naturedly, and eventually Irakli couldn't just watch any longer.

"Here, look." His cheeks ached from smiling and he reached out to hold the bottle up and press a hand down on Merab's thick hair. They both laughed, and Irakli distinctly heard Sopo's and Nino's giggles through the background noise. Irakli replaced the bottle on Merab's head and held it steady and he tapped and prodded Merab's shoulders with his free hand, trying to align the sinuous body in front of him to fit the ideal of the straight-backed dancer.

Merab tried: he always tried so hard. He drew himself as tall as he could, tightened his core and back and held his neck strong. He managed a few steps before he felt the bottle wobble and scrambled to catch it, laughing and shaking his head.

"I can't..." He shrugged.

"When have you ever said that before?" Irakli chided, but he saw Merab's jaw tighten and realised it was a sore point.

"You do it," Merab instructed him.

Irakli took the bottle and accepted the challenge. "Ok, but you do the pick up of the glass."

"I can do that," Merab agreed, his smirk returning.

Irakli had to look away from him to concentrate on his pose, and he reached for the familiar, steadying breaths as he focused on a point across the room. He settled the bottle on his head. He'd learned the dance in the studio in Batumi, wearing one of the hats that held the vessel steady, but he'd practiced it at plenty of weddings bare-headed, to varying degrees of success over the years. Now he was having too much fun to worry about messing up, and he felt the bottle stay steady even as he shuffled his feet in intricate patterns across the floor of the restaurant. He stretched his arms out for balance, and to prove that he did not need to hold the bottle, and his movement was buoyed by the sound of the audience clapping and the music thrumming.

Finally, having managed to circle round to face Merab again, Irakli lifted the bottle and strode over to a table to fetch a glass. He poured the drink and set it on the floor with a flourish and a bow for Merab, who was looking at him with hungry competitiveness.

Irakli had only one answer to his competitiveness: he beamed a smile and invited Merab to take the drink.

With a laugh, Merab flowed into movement again, his feet moving lightly around the sparkling glass full of wine.

Irakli clapped to the beat and watched him: he let his hips move too much, his whole body wanted to respond to the music; his hands were an invitation instead of a defense. It wasn't right, but Irakli would always rather have watched it than the main ensemble performance he'd attended a few weeks ago.

There was a smoothness to what Merab did, a fluidity that was beautiful when he came close to the glass, swaying before he sank low, letting his legs spread wide and approaching the splits so that he could bend at the waist and reach his mouth towards the rim of the glass. His smile curved around it and he gripped it between his lips to lift it from the floor. With a steadying hand on the vessel, Merab straightened and knocked the drink back before holding the empty glass aloft in triumph.

The drums, the room clapping, his own hands keeping the beat - Irakli seemed to feel it all in the centre of his body. As Merab grinned at his friends and family, his arms up, his feet already continuing the dance, Irakli longed to go over there and kiss the wine from his lips. Instead, he resumed his moves as well, circling round the clear floor, his eyes locked with Merab's as they finished the routine amid the building sound of the accordion and drums.

His hand was over his heart as the music faded, and Irakli thought it was a wonder that its beating didn't show, like a cartoon, through his clothes. They bowed to each other and turned stiffly in different directions to return to the table: Irakli glanced at the expressions of the people he'd been sitting with and laughed at Nino's wild applause. Even Mary wore a broad smile and shook her head fondly at Merab as he returned to his seat. Nona and Inga Deyda nodded in approval, and as he sat down Nona asked Irakli about his experience dancing in Batumi.

He felt detached from the room still, like a part of him remained out on the clear floor, face to face with Merab when it was just them and the beat. Merab and Mary got up to go for a cigarette and Nino asked him if he wanted to go. Irakli shook his head, feeling like he still needed to settle himself after the dance.

Merab seemed to understand; he was acting just as nonchalant, his hand on Mary's arm as he guided her out of the restaurant. His mother sighed as they went, and she exchanged a look with Nona.

"Where did we go wrong? What happened to them?" she murmured, and Irakli stifled a flinch. He pretended to be more interested in a cooling plate of khinkali in front of him than in their dashed hopes for Merab's love life and career, and waited until he saw Mary coming back into the room before he stood and excused himself.

He expected Nino and Merab to be returning too, but only Nino trailed after Mary. Irakli hesitated - he wasn't sure he could trust himself alone with Merab right now, cocooned by the scent of nicotine and the darkness of the streets outside.

"He got stuck talking to Sopo's cousins about some Russian ballet star," Nino told him, and Irakli blushed when he realised how unsubtle he must have been. He shrugged as though he didn't know what she meant, but Nino smirked and returned to the table with her hair swaying.

Mary stood a few feet from him, with a firm, unreadable expression on her features. She looked him over and Irakli raised his brows enquiringly and searched about for something flippant to say.

"You look at him just like David looks at Sopo," she said bluntly before he could get a word out.

He blinked, feeling the stupid smile he was wearing slip.

"Be careful, ok?" Mary told him as Irakli floundered for a response.

She went back to the table and Irakli made himself turn towards the door. He passed Merab speaking enthusiastically to a couple of Sopo's younger cousins and allowed himself only a brief, sheepish glance his way. Outside, Irakli stood back from the light at the doorway and tucked himself into the shadows on the street, smoking with absent-minded, automatic gestures. He barely even tasted the cigarette before he'd finished it, so he lit another, staring across the street as thoughts of Merab pushed again and again at the deliberately cultivated blankness in his mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For reference:  
> [One professional kintouri, with bottle dance.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ungM72ZTnpA)  
> [One...less formal presentation, much more along the lines of what I was imagining here.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SdGUJn-6LbI)


	55. Chapter 55

"What the fuck do you think you're doing?"

The tone was measured, spoken quietly, but Irakli still clenched his jaw and pressed his back against the wall outside the restaurant.

David didn't look at him as he lit his own cigarette, but the pulse of warm light from the match highlighted his grim expression. His lips were thin, the edges downturned, and his nostrils flared.

Irakli endeavoured to keep his response neutral. "Mm?"

David made a sound and shifted awkwardly. "Whatever...that was."

"A kintouri. You didn't want to dance it," Irakli said testily. As David avoided looking at him, Irakli stared at the other man's profile, feeling the same stirring of anger he'd felt when his mother had told him not to come back to see his father in the hospital.

With a sharp sigh, David finally glared back. "Merab can get himself into trouble without help." His heavy brows lowered, but it was concern that shone from his eyes. "I guess I'd assumed..." he shook his head.

Irakli rolled the taste of smoke over his tongue and felt a tremor of irritation go through his fingers as he held the filter to his lips. _What?_ He thought about snapping. _You assumed it was all Merab's idea? That I'd just made some drunken mistake? That it meant nothing_ \- he coughed on the taste of his cigarette and ground his teeth together at his own response to David's words.

David settled uneasily against the wall next to Irakli and smoked in aggravated silence momentarily stunned by the possibility that Irakli had been as attracted to Merab as Merab was to him. Then he tried again. "Look. He doesn't need your encouragement. I'm trying to get him to accept it's better if he leaves. Don't give him reasons to think he should stay here."

Irakli just let out a single, hopeless laugh and shook his head.

"I'm serious," David insisted.

Irakli shrugged. Was David trying to threaten him? Did he think Irakli was some malign influence, leading Merab astray? "It was just a dance, man," he said laconically, wondering if the excuse would have fooled anyone.

"Fuck's sake." The tension finally came through in David's voice. It wasn’t directed at Irakli specifically, he realised, but at any number of worries David kept to himself. He rolled his eyes at the sky and leaned his head against the wall. "I thought after a few weeks of living with that arsehole he'd be desperate to leave."

Irakli sighed. He had nothing to say: he'd never met Ioseb, and Merab didn't talk about him much. But if Merab wanted to spend time with Irakli he knew he wouldn't be the one to say no to it any more. Those bridges had been burned the last time they had been together. Since then, he could see his own selfishness more clearly than before, and he didn't want to know if Merab intended to leave the country as David hoped, he simply wanted to make the most of whatever enchanted time they got to spend together, past and future be damned.

But David was still concerned by what he'd seen: he eyed Irakli with distrust. "So - you were just leaving the restaurant now, right?"

Irakli raised his eyes to assess the seriousness of David's suggestion and as he did so he saw Merab approach. Relief brought with it a feeling like he'd been slammed against the wall, but, in its aftermath, worry flooded his veins. He saw he was about to become a part of a conversation that was, strictly speaking, none of his business.

In a concession to the winter's night, Merab had thrown his suit jacket on over his t-shirt, and he'd tidied his sweat-damp hair back again. With a cigarette held between his long fingers - as yet unlit - he stopped and stared at David with furious incredulity. "What are you doing?"

"I should be asking you the same fucking question!" David snapped.

Merab rolled his eyes and his whole body leaned as he did so. "What the fuck is wrong with you? You're so paranoid!"

"It's not paranoid when you're flaunting it right in front of my family! What do you think people will say?"

"They'll say 'wow that was a sloppy kintouri, but hey, we've all had some wine and the music was good', they'll say whatever! Do you think Mum and Grandma look at it and see anything other than a load of wasted opportunities?" When he was mad, Merab's voice turned into a harsh staccato. He didn't back away when David pushed off the wall and threw his cigarette butt into the gutter.

Irakli watched them, eyes wide, his own cigarette forgotten. He wondered if he'd need to restrain one of them, and he guessed he wouldn't be thanked for interfering if he did.

"So why don't you go and make some new opportunities, huh? What the fuck are you doing hanging about this place?"

Irakli thought David was going to reach out and give his brother a shove, but his hand clamped on Merab's shoulder instead and he shook it fondly.

Merab stood still and intractable, his expression locked into defiance. "I'm not the only person in this city who has problems, David! It's awkward for you because you don't know how to talk about me, right? It's your honour you're worried about, how it affects _you_ , right?"

David shook his head, his expression grim. "No. I'm worried because you're my little brother. I don't care about anything else."

A wry smile moved Merab's lips but his gaze remained steely, locked on David's. "Yeah, but I do. I'm not leaving here just so you can sleep better."

David held his eyes for a moment and then sighed and dropped his head. "I'll be getting precious little sleep soon enough, anyway," he laughed quietly. "And I guess it's good to know there'll be a babysitter around who isn't Grandma."

"You don't think I'll be a bad influence?" Merab let his attention wander from the top of David's bowed head to Irakli, who remained frozen to the spot, caught between guilt and defensiveness. The sparkle of amusement that had returned to Merab's eyes warmed him though, and Irakli returned his look with a small, nervous smile.

David snorted. "Are you kidding? Compared to the kid's father?"

"Oh, I heard he was on the straight and narrow now." Merab shrugged.

David gave him another gentle shake and then patted his shoulder and glanced back at Irakli. He looked like he wanted to repeat his warning from earlier; like he hadn't for a moment forgotten about Irakli's presence there and had wanted him to hear every word. He left without speaking though, making a dismissive gesture as he returned to the restaurant, keeping his face turned well away from the two men he left outside.

Merab watched him until his broad shoulders disappeared inside the building.

"What did he say?" he asked Irakli.

Irakli relit his cigarette and shrugged off the question. "Nothing. It doesn't matter."

Merab fidgeted and looked at his feet. He remained at a distance, his free hand in his pocket. "So, you weren't about to leave?"

He met Merab's eyes, and felt the awkwardness of the conversation with David slip away. Whatever disagreements the brothers had, they were on good terms. David didn't know anything about what else had been going on with him and Merab, and Merab's expression spoke of the mischief of a shared secret. Irakli let himself laugh.

"No," he told Merab. "I wasn't planning on it."

Merab grinned. "Good."


	56. Chapter 56

It was the dance, Irakli decided. Nothing that night could dampen his mood now, not now that he and Merab had matched steps, matched breath and body to the beat of music again. He felt giddy, and he barely stopped smiling through the rest of the feast, through the endless toasts, through the farewells made when Sopo and David and the older family members returned to their homes.

Arm in arm, Irakli, Nino, Merab and Mary took to the streets and wound a giggling, noisy path towards the bar where Merab usually worked. Things became a blur of thrilling mundanity for Irakli: they bought drinks and occupied one of the table football tables. Nino and Mary took on Merab and Irakli, and while the girls proved to be ferocious, competitive opponents, Irakli didn't care much who scored when he was there bumping elbows with Merab, their bodies clashing together as they played, their faces close enough that Irakli could feel the exhalation of Merab's laughter when he leaned forwards over the table, willing the ball in the direction of the players Irakli controlled.

He was too wild with these unfamiliar freedoms to be professional when Merab introduced him to Lasha, who ran the bar. Lasha was a skinny guy in skate fashion, with a stretched earlobe and some small, trendy tattoos. He was unlike any other business-owner Irakli had encountered: Lasha was entertained, not offended, by Irakli's flippant attitude, and agreed that he could take some shifts the following week. Irakli and Merab celebrated this with shots - cheaply and generously poured by Merab's friend at the bar - and, feeling dangerously sober, warm and rash, though protected by the low-light and the loud music, Irakli leaned in to murmur in Merab's ear, "I really want to kiss you right now..."

Merab's astonished expression almost broke his resolve not to. His cheeks coloured and, in darkness that seemed to cloak them without coming between them, Irakli saw all the shades in his eyes when he looked up. After taking a moment to establish that Irakli was being serious, despite the smile on his face, Merab laughed in appreciation. He must have known that the way he smiled only added to Irakli's fixation on his lips.

Merab glanced around and moved his shoulders in a bashful shrug. "You can...no one in this place would care."

Though he knew it wasn't a gay bar, Irakli still reassessed the place with a shiver of alarm. His chuckle was nervous this time. "Ah...maybe later," he murmured. He saw that Merab understood when he met his eyes though. He felt like he'd added an extra dimension to their secret, and he imagined threatening to kiss Merab wherever they went now: bars, clubs, cafés, markets, streets, squares...Irakli thought about making Merab blush right in the middle of Freedom Square, between the protestors and the local pigeons.

He thought about actually kissing him there...

An impossibility. He put it from his mind and indulged in as much touch as he dared, turning Merab back towards the football table with a hand on his shoulder blade.

Mary was a little tipsy now, and she was leaning against a pillar by the table. "It's just never going to be the same!" she wailed at Ninutsa, who smiled sympathetically at her.

"Sopo's still Sopo though..." Nino reminded her.

"I know, I know..." Mary brightened as the guys returned and she pushed herself upright again.

"Ready to be beaten?" Nino asked.

"Oh no, this time we're going to win, for sure." Irakli shouldered Merab as they leaned down to the table.

He was convinced they were about to score when Merab's phone rang and distracted them both. Nino claimed the ball with a shout and put it past Merab's players when he looked down to check the screen.

He tutted, but picked up. "Hi!" Merab said with familiarity and impatience in his tone. He rolled his eyes at Irakli.

Irakli grinned and shrugged at Nino's victory dance while Merab turned away to take the call. Mary was looking at him thoughtfully - her cheeks were bright with colour from the exertion of the game, the warm bar and the wine. Irakli braced himself, wondering what she might say this time - he knew she worried about Merab, and felt more protective of him than ever since they'd left the ensemble together.

"Did you lose your phone?" Mary asked abruptly.

It wasn't what he'd been expecting, and he laughed shortly. "What? No."

She frowned. "Merab said he couldn't call you..."

"Oh." He blinked. Maybe he was a bit more drunk than he'd realised. Maybe he'd just buried that reminder of what had happened in Batumi far away from the evening's happiness. "No, no, it got broken. The screen doesn't work."

"Did you try getting it fixed?" Nino asked, her question light and innocent. "I know a place that does it cheap. They fixed my cousin's phone when he dropped it in the baths."

Irakli thought about the last time he'd switched it on. It still picked up the messages people sent him, and more often than not they were unfriendly reminders not to return to Batumi or disgrace Zinaida's honour any further. To say that he didn't like the idea of handing it over to a stranger who'd be able to see the whole history of the texts he'd received was something of an understatement.

"Nah...I don't think it's worth it, you know?" he said evasively.

Nino made a sympathetic noise, but Mary folded her arms and frowned at him. Then her eyes wandered over to where Merab paced with his phone to his ear and she sighed. "I have an old one you can have, if you want?" She looked back at Irakli with wine-heavy eyelids, but there was some kind of appeal in her expression. "I was going to give it to my step-brother, but he's spoilt enough."

Irakli blinked at her; it seemed like an absurd act of generosity. Not least from a woman who'd been glaring daggers at him for the first part of the evening. "What?"

His response startled Mary, who shrugged and blushed harder. "It's not much. It has buttons and everything!"

"I can give you something for it..." He started to offer, but they all turned at Merab's urgent voice.

"No, you don't have to, I'll be along to Nia's later..." He paced back towards them, his free hand over his ear as the music blared. He glanced up and rolled his eyes, tried to object once more and then swore as he was cut off.

It was Irakli he looked to with an apology in his eyes. "I tried to tell him not to come here..."

Irakli felt a chill crawl over his skin and shared a glance with Mary and Nino. He wasn't ready for this secure little gathering to be upended by new arrivals just yet. "Who's coming?" he asked casually.

Merab came closer again, his head bowed, and Irakli had to remind himself to stand his ground; Merab just wanted to speak discreetly, he didn't try and touch Irakli when he came near. "It's my friend Mate," he murmured. Quickly, defensively, he added, "He's really great - but he kind of...already knows about you. I don't know if you're ok with meeting him."

Irakli put on a brave smirk, though the idea of Merab telling unknown crowds all about the time Irakli had broken his heart last year left him suddenly tired. "Yeah?"

The best parts of the evening had been spent around people who already knew about him and Merab - but the realisation that he'd have to keep coming out all over again made his heart sink. And it wasn't was corrosive as the rumours in Batumi had been, but it was a reminder that people talked, wherever you were.

Merab studied him and shrugged minutely. "Yeah. Not, like, everything. But I don't know if you want that..."

He swallowed. He didn't want to leave, like a street cat chased off by the approach of another. But he didn't want to have to share Merab for the whole night; to vie for Merab's attention; to hold his touch back from Merab's body; to look away from him when he felt himself staring. "Actually, I was thinking..." Irakli laughed nervously and checked Mary and Nino weren't paying close attention.

Nino was hugging Mary, who seemed to have returned to the subject of her earlier meltdown: how unfair it was that Sopo couldn't come out with them anymore, how cute her baby was going to be, and how Mary both wanted and didn't want that life.

Irakli returned his attention to Merab, whose own gaze was restless and worried. He steeled himself and allowed his hand to drop where David's had been earlier: a friendly, brotherly squeeze of Merab's shoulder, utterly belied by the longing in the way they looked at each other.

"I thought, maybe..." he struggled over the words. He'd never asked anyone anything like this before. He'd never needed to - incoherent giggling in Zinaida's sister's car, the body language of dance floors and quiet beaches, dark gardens and stairwells. A conservatory lit by orange light, the shadow behind a terracotta kvevri: he knew how to respond to these things. But how did you just come out and say it?

His hand tightened on Merab's shoulder.

"I'd rather go now..."

Merab's eyes widened in a moment of worry before he realised what Irakli was suggesting. "Yeah?" he asked softly.

Irakli shrugged and let his hand slide off Merab's shoulder. He raised it to rub at his mouth and it smelled of Merab's t-shirt, of the detergent he used and the scent of his body. "Yeah. If you want?"

Merab's smile said it all, and then Irakli couldn't leave the building quickly enough. He'd already forgotten about Mary's offer, but in the doorway of the bar, lighting their cigarettes and hugging each other goodnight, Mary reiterated what she'd said: "I'll get that phone for you."

He didn't know what embarrassed him so much about it: the fact that the charity was so necessary, or the fact it was coming from Mary. He tried to make excuses again, but Mary was drunk and stubborn.

"No!" she jabbed him with a finger as Nino, speechless with laughter, held onto her. Mary looked in surprise at her own digit, the nail painted red, and then she prodded Irakli's thick leather jacket again. "No, no more excuses! I'm giving you this phone so when Merab calls you, you can pick up, ok?"

" _Mary_..." Merab sighed, too exasperated to be really scandalised.

"Keep it topped up, ok?" Mary looked at Irakli with furious expectation.

He shrugged and nodded, ever the naughty schoolchild, caught out doing something he shouldn't have been doing. "Yeah, sure, ok!"

"You should say thank you..." Nino reminded him, enjoying the entire spectacle without remorse or shame.

Irakli gathered Mary into a big bear hug that lifted her momentarily onto her toes. "Thank you, Mary," he said over her squeak of surprise, and turned away from the building before she could see him blushing. Merab was at his elbow, agreeing his plans to meet Mary the following weekend, and then they stepped away from the bubble of sound and warmth around the bar, and the cold streets were theirs for the taking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A fluffy respite from the angst! I think they all deserve it. <3  
> As always always always: thanks to my beta-reader Katherine who fixes my punctuation and tortured/tortuous metaphors (though remaining mistakes and melodrama are all my own), and _thank you_ , you lovely beautiful people to read this. Stay well, I love y'all.


	57. Chapter 57

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologise for the wait!
> 
> Merab demanded to have a say at last :) and this update is mostly fluffy and sweet, but I didn't want to imply that Merab would be absolutely fine about what happened with them before, or with Irakli's tendencies to still be kind of an ass, so imagine the swan simile for Merab: all calm and beautiful above the surface, legs paddling wildly below.
> 
> This chapter is kind of...smut that caught feelings/characterisation. For anyone who doesn't like to read the sex scenes, you can get about halfway through this chapter, then you might want to skip on.
> 
> Thanks, as always, to my beta-reader Katherine, who is a paragon of good sense and grammatical knowledge.

The little flat was dark and cool, and the light in Irakli's room was even dimmer than in the corridor. The air was chill enough to turn Merab's small laugh into a puff of condensation between their lips.

Irakli pushed Merab back against the closed door, his hands cold through the material of Merab's smart trousers. Merab laughed again at the feeling of Irakli's freezing nose nuzzling against his own and bit his lip in anticipation of the kiss he'd been teased with back in the bar. His arms encircled Irakli's neck as their lips finally met, and Merab let his body fall away from the door towards Irakli's as Irakli's hands shifted around to the small of his back, finding their way under his jacket and his shirt, though not yet travelling beneath his t-shirt.

Warmth was returning to his chilled limbs as they pressed their bodies together. The quiet night was broken by the intensity of Irakli's breath mingling with his, with the wordless sounds they made against one another. Merab's fingers combed through the back of Irakli's hair and found their way to his collar, following the fabric around to begin peeling the buttons apart one by one.

He was only halfway down Irakli's shirt, exposing no more than the t-shirt beneath it, when, as if to prove how quiet they were actually being, Merab's phone went off at a volume that might have roused half the Armenian cemetery down the road.

They flinched, teeth knocking against lips, bodies springing apart as though they'd each received a jolt of electricity.

Merab fumbled the offending device from his pocket and its screen lit up the expression of panic and disbelief on Irakli's face.

"Mate, _what_?" Merab hissed, answering it on reflex - Mate's calls concerned minor emergencies often enough that Merab rarely ignored them outright.

From outside, he heard Irakli's grandmother stir. "Irakli? Is that you?"

"Merab, where did you go?" Mate called down the line. There was a heavy bassline in the background and the sound of people cheering intermittently.

Irakli slipped from the room to check on his grandmother, and Merab was left shaking his head at the phone as he paced over towards the shutters.

"I'm not coming to Nia's, Mate, I texted you..."

"Yeah, but I thought maybe you just needed some convincing..." Mate said breezily. "I found some German tourists; they're here for a whole week!"

"I don't care about that," Merab snapped. He spoke as quietly as he could - Irakli had closed the door after himself, but Merab could see that a light was on in the flat beyond.

"They want to go dancing!" Mate exclaimed, as though Merab would find the whole thing understandable now. "Where are you?"

Merab glanced towards the door and inched closer to the shuttered windows. Conspiratorially, he held the phone close to his mouth.

"I'm at Irakli's," he murmured.

Immediately he swore and moved the handset away from him as Mate let out a crow of knowing delight that mingled with a spike in the background noise from the bar. "Why didn't you just say?" Mate admonished him.

"I _am_ just saying!"

"Yeah, but if you'd said before...you know what, never mind!"

Merab sighed. He could imagine Mate's hand waving dismissively through the air.

"I hope he's on his best behaviour these days. Sorry for interrupting, byeeee - oh and bring him to Nia's some time; I want to meet him!" Mate called and Merab winced at how loudly his words came though the speaker on his phone before the click of the line being disconnected.

He looked around the empty room and shivered guiltily. Should he go out and join them in the kitchen? Was Irakli making excuses that included him or not? Merab chewed his lip and imagined Irakli returning to the room, cool and reticent and nervous all over again. The ripple of despair Merab felt at this possibility was no longer wholly unfamiliar, and he ran his hands through his hair with a small noise of exasperation. He imagined having - time and again - to keep pulling Irakli along with him, coaxing him, encouraging him, reassuring him and hiding with him. In the still, empty darkness there was nothing to stop despair from merging with a sense of futility, and Merab turned quickly to the shutters, looking for fresh air and a distraction from his own thoughts. He unlatched one and pulled it open, swallowing down the swell of emotion and fighting for control over himself.

The moon was nearly full in the cloudless sky and he leaned against the other shutter. He knew this self-pity was silly, misdirected, unfair, but now and again he remembered the pain he'd thought would always be associated with Irakli, and it felt like he was standing on the edge of something high, the wind pushing at his back. He put a hand in his pocket and toyed with his lighter, thinking of lighting a cigarette - but at last he heard Irakli wishing Rusudan good night.

The light in the corridor went out and Irakli came quietly back into the room. He latched the door without looking up, and then Merab saw his expression lit up by the moonlight from the open shutter.

He didn't look at all how Merab had feared: the silver light made him resemble an over-exposed photo, highlighting the contrast between his fair skin and dark hair, his dark eyes and thick lashes, his brows raised in wonderment. He smiled just a little at first, then it pulled wide and he laughed softly as he came towards Merab, pushing away from the door like he was launching himself in Merab's direction.

"Is your grandmother ok?" Merab murmured, reluctant to believe this ease was wholly genuine.

Irakli stood in front of Merab, in the light of the clear sky. He looked down at him with the kind of sudden, exposed sweetness that Merab found hard to believe was real when he wasn't in its presence. Irakli's hand settled shyly on the shoulder of Merab's jacket, then wandered up to his neck to cup his jaw. "She's fine. I just had to explain that it wasn't actually morning yet."

Merab tried to muster a smile, but he was still stiff with trepidation, certain that Irakli would find some excuse to ask him to go.

Instead, Irakli kissed him softly on the mouth, pushing gently with his lips but going no further as Merab hesitated. "I'm sorry I stopped you going dancing tonight," he said, studying Merab with a burgeoning nervousness that Merab feared he'd ignited.

"It doesn't matter," Merab said quickly, remembering himself, moving closer to Irakli, holding the next button on his shirt between his fingers but not yet moving to undo it.

"Is everything alright?" Irakli bowed his head to lean against Merab's, but he made no further demand of Merab.

With an unsteady breath, Merab nodded. "Yeah. You never know what Mate's calling about. But it was nothing."

"He's annoyed I stole you away?" Irakli asked, and though there was laughter in his voice, Merab frowned up at him, determined to shut down the discomfort he heard there.

"No!" He rolled his eyes at Irakli's sweet, roguish smile. "Maybe." Merab let his lips curl into a smirk at last, relaxing into the steadying hold of Irakli's hand on his hip, Irakli’s hand on his neck. "Anyway, you didn't stop me going dancing." Merab pushed his forehead against Irakli's and looked up coquettishly. "We had a pretty good dance earlier."

"Mm, it was pretty good, wasn't it?"

Irakli's reply made Merab's chest tighten with longing, with relief, with the return of a hope that just wouldn't die: maybe they could make this work. Maybe they really could. He still wasn't certain that he wasn't just pretending enough for both of them - furiously defending something he didn't quite believe in whenever Mary challenged him on it, determined to recreate what he couldn't have last year. But then Irakli looked at him like he was doing at that moment, and Merab thought maybe he wasn't making it up.

"Hey...do you have some music on your phone?"

Merab realised Irakli was swaying them slightly, moving Merab's hips from side to side in time with his own. He made a sound of confusion, but nuzzled his nose back against Irakli's. "Yeah, a bit. Just for practising to. But - "

Irakli had already let go of him. He crossed to the wardrobe and cast a reckless smile back at Merab. He rummaged behind his clothes for a moment then returned with a tangled pair of earphones.

Merab let his own smile broaden, realising his intention.

Irakli fumbled to untangle the mess of wires while Merab flicked through the songs on his phone, trying not to think too hard about all the ways he'd imagined dancing with - or for - Irakli when he'd listened to them.

Sharing the earphones, they laughed quietly together as they tried to arrange their hands and bodies without knocking the cables loose. The phone was in Merab's jacket pocket and Irakli kept himself close so that one of the speakers reached him, but, when Merab tried to move his body too extravagantly to the music, he knocked the earphone from his own ear and Irakli doubled over against him, in silent hysterics against his shoulder.

Merab replaced the lost earphone and pulled the other one loose from Irakli's ear as he did, and Irakli - laughing, dancing horribly off-beat for a trained performer, kissing Merab all the time - held his hand to the side of Merab's head, keeping the speaker in place as Merab fished for the other and replaced it in Irakli's ear.

Holding each other like that, palms cupped over sensitive cartilage, forehead to forehead, they managed to find each other's rhythm and move to the music.

Irakli's smile when he danced made Merab's heart soar. One of his cheeks dimpled more than the other, his lower lip looked soft above the definition of his chin and jaw, and his eyes crinkled at the corners.

Merab trapped his own bottom lip beneath his teeth, a reminder to concentrate as he rolled his hips with Irakli's, shifted his shoulders, curved his body towards the one that answered his every move. Whatever he did, he saw its effect in the deepening dimples in Irakli's cheek, in the way heat enriched the colour in his face, the way his laughter ran to breathlessness.

Between tracks, Irakli shifted his hand on Merab's head, forgetting about the earphone and plunging his fingers into the thick hair at the back of his skull. Merab let himself arch into the kiss that followed, not minding the loss of the speaker and the music, not minding anything except the feeling of submersion, the way Irakli's mouth tasted and felt against his own.

Irakli's eyes were closed when they broke apart, his thick lashes stark against his cheeks. He moved his head from side to side as though still lost in the music, and gathered Merab to him as Merab gathered up the lost speaker.

The track that was playing now wasn't one of his practice tracks, rather it was something slow he had listened to obsessively when Irakli had first left Tbilisi all those months ago.

He flushed and reached for his phone, wondering if Irakli was listening to the English lyrics, if he could hear the associations Merab had heard in them.

"Oh, this one's not so good to dance to..." Merab began to explain.

Irakli didn't open his eyes, but one of his arms tightened around Merab's waist and he held his free hand up to keep the speaker in his ear. "Leave it; it's nice," he murmured. He opened his eyes briefly to flash a smile at Merab. " _Slow dance_?" he said the English words against the skin next to Merab's lips as if they were a joke, but everything else about the way he held him was deadly serious.

It was enough to make Merab feel like he'd taken two sharp kicks to the knees. He swallowed and held onto Irakli for dear life, trying to remember how to move his legs, support his own bodyweight, give into the seeming nonchalance of the way Irakli was turning them together like a couple waltzing at the edge of a wedding dance floor.

Merab couldn't close his own eyes. He looked to the side as they turned, feeling Irakli's cheek curve in a smile against his face, but all the while trying to catch a glimpse of his expression in the tall mirror on the wall, needing to see...he didn't know what more he needed to see. But the enduring, underlying, nagging need was impossible to deny.

There had been weeks when he had only listened to this song, when everything hurt, no matter what he did, when a twinge from his ankle brought tears to his eyes - not because of the injury, but because it made him think of Irakli. When he had looked for the same feeling that heady summer had given him from the people he danced with on the weekends: from their admiring gaze on his body, the taste of other mouths and hands on the cigarettes he bummed from them. It was never a match for what he'd already experienced, though, and the lack of connection troubled him.

When, at last - after weeks that felt eternal - he'd stopped hoping for a repeat of those feelings, Merab had found that he could still enjoy the effect he had on others, even if he always felt detached from their idea of him. He'd let Mate and his other friends remind him of the nature of fun, and he'd tried, with all the focus he'd brought to everything else in his life, to learn not to take things so seriously. With Thomas, he’d settled into a casual routine knowing full well that what he felt was barely related to what he'd felt for Irakli. Yet, while it didn't thrill him, it was reliable at least, and Thomas had been free of shame, encouraging and uncomplicated.

Everyone in his life had been telling Merab to toughen up for as long as he could remember, and he'd finally understood the importance of it. He was more careful now about how much of himself he gave to others. Something was always reserved, forever raw from that colossal disappointment. It was easy to be a new, better defended version of himself around his new friends - what did they know of the years of Aleko's complaints and his father's criticism? What did they know of how traditional dance ought to be, or how Merab ought to have been?

Irakli's departure had hurt like hell, it had left him worn down because his subconscious couldn't drop the hope that he might see Irakli again, that something might change and he'd be able to go to him, or Irakli would choose to come back to him. And then, at last, the pain had sunk somewhere deep inside him, like the pain in his ankle, only resurfacing when he was careless or reckless. He'd realised, grimly, that he could live with it, and would have to do so, and he'd stopped hoping for what he'd had with Irakli to happen again. He'd settled for the fun he could have with Thomas, with his friends at the club, and it had been good: a busy life, filled with laughter and music and distraction, filled with people who only had nice things to say about his dance, who never told him what to do with his hands.

It had been enough - until the day Irakli had sauntered up to his father's market stall, looking tired and pained behind his bravura, a smudge of unhappy history lingering in the bruises Irakli seemed to think were no longer visible. In short, looking like he'd missed Merab just as much as Merab had missed him.

Since then, he'd felt the old wound reopen, pulling apart wider each time he saw Irakli hesitate, each time he was reminded that Irakli still held part of himself distant too, locked away in a hospital or an apartment in Batumi. Merab was stung again when he thought about texting Irakli and remembered he couldn't; when he went out and wasn't with Irakli, and when he was with him but felt he couldn't look at him or touch him like he wanted to.

Understanding the concern Irakli felt for his parents was simple enough, but persuading his heart that this wasn't a competition he was doomed to lose was another matter. So he tried to take each moment as it was offered, tried not to worry if Irakli wanted to keep things private, not to get too hopeful when he whispered things like _I really want to kiss you right now_ in the middle of a crowded bar. What did that matter? Merab already knew how good Irakli could be at denying himself what he wanted.

He pressed his forehead against the warmth of Irakli's neck and tried to inch his body closer to the other man's.

Irakli felt him do so and pulled him near so that Merab sighed at the feeling of his forearms tightening across his back.

He hadn't danced like this with Mary, not with anyone in the clubs, not with Thomas - who had been a man possessed of two left feet. Irakli's hips were flush with his, his movement as they swayed together just enough to increase the pressure of one body against the other.

But still Merab couldn't shake his unease: he couldn't reconcile how badly he wanted to be with Irakli with how much more complicated it seemed to make his life again. And Irakli had warned him it would - but Merab had been too stubborn to let him slip away again. He knew how much it would hurt to let go, pain so much worse than the pain of holding on, and he'd resolved not to go through that again. Not yet. Deep down, despite the way he tried to distance himself from it, Merab still believed that if he only worked hard enough, _wanted_ something enough, he could have things his way. But since last year his trust in this had been shaken, and now he battled his own hopes, reminding himself over and over again that things didn't work like that, that they couldn't, and that he needed to remember that this wasn't going to last.

Maybe something of his uncertainty came through in the way he held himself - they were so entwined Irakli could have felt any twitch in Merab's muscles. Merab screwed his eyes shut and wondered if the song had always been as long as this - he kept thinking it was coming to an end, but it went on and on.

"Sorry, did I step on your foot?" Irakli asked with a laconic laugh as he felt Merab flinch.

Merab drew back to look at him, his expression patiently admonishing. Irakli knew full well he hadn't stood on his foot. But he was smiling at the excuse to get Merab to meet his eyes, and he looked as good as he ever did when he danced. When he danced, Irakli stopped thinking and let loose with a grin that acted like a noose on Merab's heart; when he danced, his cheer swept away all the seriousness with which Merab had taken his life's passion, stripping away the drills and the formalities and the expectations of others - leaving behind only what he could do with his body, what felt good, what matched Irakli's movements, what broadened his smile or made him laugh.

The kintouri earlier had compounded the trouble Merab knew he was in: he was going to make the same mistakes all over again, and when Irakli was finally accepted back by his mother, or decided to go anyway, he'd leave Merab just as he'd done before. He might have proven that there was a joy to be had in dance that Merab's traditional training had long overlooked - but he'd also taken Merab's whole life of ambition and made it seem insignificant.

The song ended and Merab pulled the earphones away from both of them. He felt his pulse quicken. He had to try and find something lasting, something certain and future-proof in this, whatever it was.

"If you had the chance to audition again - for the main ensemble - would you do it?" Face to face with Irakli now in the silvery light, Merab murmured the question impulsively.

Irakli blinked, his eyebrow moved quizzically - it hadn't been what he'd expected, evidently.

"What? Why?" He followed the questions with a chuckle - an afterthought that let Merab know the question made him uncomfortable, that he didn't want to take it seriously.

"I mean..." Merab moved his shoulder in a shrug and looked at his own fingers lying pale against Irakli's half-open red shirt. "You can't stay in the youth ensemble forever."

"Oh..." Irakli's eyes sparkled in the twilight, and Merab saw his lips pull up in a smile. "Are you calling me old?" he teased, adjusting his grip on Merab's back to bring him closer again, touching their noses together so that, when Merab snorted and tried to reframe the question, he had to wait for Irakli's kisses to peter out softly against his mouth and cheek, jaw and chin.

It made him smile, despite his serious intent. "You know what I mean..." Merab said with fond impatience.

Irakli's eyes narrowed a little, and Merab saw his mouth tighten. He wasn't good at hiding his discomfort, and when he set his jaw like that, Merab knew how hard it was to get him to speak.

Merab let one hand move to that firm line, and he felt how Irakli's jawbone fitted neatly against his palm. His thumb swept speculatively up to those stiffly pressed lips, which only a moment ago had been hot and soft against his. He rubbed the pad of his thumb over Irakli's lower lip and felt the air from his sigh.

"Would you audition now? If you got the chance again?" Merab pressed.

Beneath his thumb, Irakli's lips moved in a smile Merab might otherwise have missed. "Ah, I don't know," Irakli conceded, kissing Merab's thumb pad as it slid away to his cheek. "It never seemed real in the first place."

Merab did not pretend to understand this. "Why not?" he asked bluntly. He frowned and studied Irakli's calm dark eyes. That audition had been all he'd wanted for so long, all he'd worked for and trained for. And Irakli was a good dancer - a really good dancer - one who could quite easily have rivalled Vakhtang for the spot. How could he be so good but think he hadn't had a real chance there?

The answer Merab got was deadpan, flat as a brick wall. "Mm, well, for starters I didn't have a chokha..."

Merab sighed dramatically and shifted as though about to take a step back in annoyance, but Irakli held onto him, his laughter nearly silent, muffled against Merab's cheek.

"I'm serious..." Merab snapped, though he leaned into Irakli as his arms pulled tight around him.

"I know." The laughter vanished from Irakli's voice as quickly as it had appeared.

For a few long breaths he was silent, his cheek pressed against Merab's, his hold tense - like he expected Merab to flee if he relaxed.

Merab felt Irakli’s eyelashes on his own skin when Irakli blinked quickly as he considered his words.

When he spoke his voice was muffled against Merab's face, his words tangled and caught in Merab's hair. "I always guessed I'd have to go back. I tried to act like anything was possible when I was here, because...when I had to go back, none of it would be."

His arms were still tight around Merab, and there was an involuntary quiver in one of his muscles.

"What about now?" Merab pushed, trying not to hold his breath. "Why wouldn't you audition now?"

Irakli drew away and studied him. "What does it matter? Have you heard something?"

"No..." Merab watched his own fingers playing over the cloth that covered the structure of Irakli's body, tracing the hint of sinew and bone and muscle, curve and ridge and hollow. "It would still be a good opportunity though, right?"

Irakli sighed, but he humoured Merab with a smile and a roll of his eyes. He made an equivocal sound. "I guess. There'd be a lot of travel involved."

"You don't want to travel?" Merab asked quickly.

Irakli leaned his chin against Merab's hair so that his expression was impossible to see.

Against his own face, Merab felt the shape of Irakli's jaw and neck. He felt Irakli swallow nervously, felt the hum of his vocal chords as he spoke.

"I don't know. I guess."

He was thinking of his parents, Merab decided. If his dad died and he wasn't even in the country he'd feel guilty no matter what. It was silly to be angry with someone in a coma, someone you'd never met, didn't even know at all, but Merab felt a stab of annoyance towards Irakli's father nonetheless: didn't he know he was stifling his son's life? Acting as a drag on his potential and his ambitions?

"Do you want to travel, then?" Irakli murmured, swaying them together gently in the silent moonlight by the open shutter. The movement seemed to soothe him as much as it soothed Merab. His expression was almost shy when he turned back to Merab; there was something newly tender and open about it.

Merab's emotions were too skittish for him to focus on this. He sighed impatiently, thinking Irakli was cleverly diverting him from the conversation he'd been trying to have, from the future Irakli didn't want to think about.

"Come on," Irakli cajoled, his crooked smile broadening. "When I was a kid I was obsessed with going to Germany. I thought they had all the best footballers."

Merab tried not to let his frustration show, but he frowned at Irakli's encouragement - yet again, he could only talk about the past.

There was no artifice in his grin, though, and Merab softened a little and brought his face closer, touching their noses together. "If you could go anywhere you'd go to Germany? Really? I'd choose Japan," he said archly.

Irakli laughed at his tone. One of his arms moved away from Merab's back. His hand opened and slid around his body, over the thin fabric of Merab's t-shirt. He cupped Merab's waist with his palm and then shifted again, his hand flat over sensitive features, tracing the shape of Merab's hip through the waistbands of his trousers and underwear, following the subtle curve of the iliac furrow, roving to where he knew the skin was marked with ink beneath Merab's clothes.  
"Yeah? You want to go and meet this guy in person?" Irakli laughed as his fingers teased the space on Merab's body that was marked with the No Face tattoo.

Merab let out a surprised burst of laughter and flinched at the ticklish feeling. Irakli laughed quietly with him and kissed him, letting his touch settle again into something more serious.

Merab might have let himself be walked backwards towards the bed, but he still couldn't quite drop his uncertainties. He pushed Irakli away gently and pinned him with a determined look. "But what do you want to do? If you could do anything? Go anywhere? What do you want?"

Irakli just laughed dismissively, failing to meet Merab's eyes. His manner reminded Merab of a dream he'd once had. It reminded him what it felt like to assume he was the only one invested in this.

"I mean it," Merab insisted. "If you could go anywhere...?"

Irakli bit his lip, still smiling, still not looking at Merab. Merab felt his heart sink with grim inevitability when at last Irakli said simply, "I wish I could go to Batumi."

He sighed, bowing his head and leaning into Irakli's shoulder to hide his disappointment. Irakli's hand cradled the back of his neck and encouraged Merab to lean into him.

"I wish I could show you all the places I used to hang out," he said very quietly, and Merab's heart kicked out at the addition. He bit his lip and looked up at Irakli with wonder, disbelieving. Irakli didn't meet his gaze; there was something endearingly shy about the way he looked away over Merab's shoulder as he spoke, but Merab now stared at him with open adoration.

"The beach is really nice. I think you'd like it. There's this sculpture, at sunset..."

He was explaining about the moving statues of Ali and Nino but Merab was barely listening to the words any longer. He just stared up at Irakli, feeling a buzzing in his blood, in his body - he was desperate to ask for confirmation of what Irakli meant, but certain from the way he was blushing, the way his eyes crinkled sweetly, self-deprecatingly, that Merab hadn't misinterpreted him. Irakli might suck at imagining the future, but when pushed, he was describing one with Merab in it.

Decisively, gratefully, Merab interrupted Irakli with his kiss, raising himself to his tiptoes within Irakli's arms and pressing the lengths of their bodies together. Irakli's hold wound tight about him, his arms beneath Merab's shirt and jacket, and he laughed against Merab's mouth and Merab turned them and pushed him insistently back towards the bed.

"It's not that exciting," Irakli murmured. "Batumi, I mean."

He ran his fingers back through Merab's hair and smiled uncertainly. "It would be better with you though..."

Merab grinned. He was impossibly relieved by these words. Even if it couldn't happen, just hearing that Irakli thought about it, wanted it... _him_. The feeling of being wanted enveloped him, like silk on his skin or the warmth of the spring sun. He kissed Irakli again, his hands on either side of his face, his body pressed tight against Irakli's.

They might not be able to go to the places Irakli mentioned together, but it occurred to Merab yet again how exciting it would be to share the rest of Tbilisi with him. It would take some patience; he knew Irakli would worry about being seen, about meeting Merab's friends and getting drawn into a community that was growing sick of hiding in the shadows - but for the first time, Merab did not try to stop himself from hoping it was possible.

He drove Irakli before him with an onslaught of affection until Irakli let out a noise of surprise as his legs hit the edge of the bed. Merab made short work of the rest of the buttons on his shirt and pushed it off his shoulders. Irakli shivered but pulled his own t-shirt up as well, flinging it quickly away from them and pushing his hands beneath Merab's open shirt and jacket. Merab discarded them too, even as he fought against the need to take his hands from Irakli's body in order to undress himself. Irakli kept trying to pull at Merab's t-shirt, but this time Merab was determined to have things his way. He gave Irakli a careful shove so that his balance shifted and he sat down heavily on the edge of the bed. He looked up at Merab with wide eyes, his lower lip jutting out in a swollen pout, his mouth open and his chest moving rapidly with his breath.

Merab groaned softly into his mouth as he bent to kiss him, glorying in the way Irakli looked, in the way he looked at him. He paused to throw away his own t-shirt, then sank to his knees between Irakli's legs and looked up at him with serious, steady desire.

Irakli gawped at him still, his cheeks red, his lips red, the front of his jeans stretched tight beneath the touch Merab laid between his legs. He swallowed, moonlight rippling on his white throat as he looked down at Merab. The bright window cast Merab's shadow onto his body, and when Merab leaned up to kiss him again - his hands resting at the tops of Irakli's thighs - his shadow moved like an eclipse over Irakli's bowed face.

With deliberately slow movements, Merab pulled apart the fastenings of Irakli's trousers. Irakli held onto his shoulders and Merab felt him shiver - from cold or from want. Merab smiled inside their kiss and made his movements even slower, lingering longer in his exploration of the heat of Irakli's groin. He reached deep between his legs and gently applied pressure, pushing his fingers into the base of Irakli's erection.

A gasp against his mouth was his reward, and - Merab himself let out a small sound at what followed - a hint of teeth against his lips, just one incisor catching against Merab's mouth with apparent carelessness.

Merab tested this response by repeating the gesture, his fingers massaging hard through the fabric of Irakli's underwear.

Irakli swore and dragged his teeth over Merab's lower lip and it was Merab's turn to gasp, to compose himself for a moment as his own cock pushed against the tight fabric of his trousers.

He parted the front of Irakli's underwear and drew out his reddened cock, moving his hand up and down with even, confident strokes. Irakli was watching him with something like astonishment, as though it was the first time he'd really thought about what Merab was doing. His mouth glittered in the shadow cast by Merab's head, and Merab kissed him sloppily, pushing his tongue hard against Irakli's, hinting at what he was about to do.

Irakli still seemed dumbfounded as Merab moved his mouth away from Irakli's lips down to his cock.

Merab bowed over the smooth dome of the head and pushed at it, too, with his tongue. He fastened his lips around it and sucked at the end, keeping up pressure against the underside with his tongue as he did so.

Irakli said something, maybe just a shuddering, half-swallowed " _Oh_!" and moved his tightening grip from Merab's shoulders to the edge of the mattress.

Merab pressed his thumb into the base of Irakli's cock as he sucked, now taking Irakli deep inside his mouth, now pulling back swiftly, his tongue playing at the ridge beneath the head, twisting his grip and feeling his own saliva run down the shaft to smooth the movement of his thumb deep between Irakli's balls.

Irakli made a gesture so suddenly that Merab stopped and looked up, and he saw that one of Irakli's fists was embedded, clenched, in the bedding and his other hand had raised to his mouth. He bit the skin on the back of his wrist and looked down at Merab, his eyes made large by the light of the moon catching in them, sweat starting to show at the top of his flushed, dark-haired chest.

Merab thought he looked stunning like that and moved his mouth again on the head of Irakli's cock, teasing with wide, measured strokes from his tongue. He held Irakli's eyes as he did it - at least until Irakli screwed his shut and tried to suppress the impatient tremor in his hips.

The response made delight surge in Merab's chest. He had made him do that. The most gorgeous man he'd ever seen, at his most gorgeous, and Merab knew he could undo him in moments with a few loving movements from his tongue.

But they might do other things first, if Irakli could hold on.

Merab released him gently, with one final, lingering lick and a few careful strokes from his hand. He looked up at Irakli with adoration as he lowered his hand shakily from his mouth.

He looked dishevelled, almost alarmed by his own response, and Merab noticed the way he paused and swallowed as he rested his hand on Merab's cheek. He fixed his stare on Merab's mouth and hesitated before bowing to kiss him.

There wasn't time to reassure him before Irakli decided to kiss him anyway, and once he kissed him he forgot his hesitation. "You're amazing, fuck, you're amazing," he said in a voice worn down by lust, the words jumbling within the kiss.

Merab could only laugh silently as he pulled away and rose to stand in front of him. You couldn't say “thank you” to that, or “I know”, so Merab just bit his lip and grinned as he undid his own trousers, kicked off his shoes, pulled his socks and underwear off, and approached Irakli to straddle him on the edge of the bed, pushing his own cock against Irakli's, which was still slick from Merab's mouth, as hot as his lips beneath Merab’s kisses.

As he leaned into Irakli he thrust his hips forward, making small movements, rocking against him.

Irakli's hands unfurled stiffly against the skin of Merab's back, pulling him closer, holding him as he moved, his palms hot and soft on Merab's shoulder blades. Then, as he settled into their rhythm, Irakli’s hands gripped Merab's back and he hooked his fingers and ran his short nails down the curve of Merab’s spine.

Merab arched into the feeling, making a sound of appreciation as he cast his head back.

Irakli took the invitation of Merab's open neck without pause, placing soft-bitten kisses all the way down the line of the vein. His grip tightened on Merab's back: he held a fistful of his arse and ran the nails of his other hand back up over Merab's skin.

Irakli's mouth muffled the happy chuckle Merab let out, his kisses pressing down on the base of Merab's windpipe, the deep v of sinew between his collarbones. Merab let his eyes fall shut, his smile grow wide: he let Irakli make all the moves for now, lost in the feeling of his touches, his grasping, demanding hand, fingers inching around to hidden, sensitive areas.

He needed to get rid of Irakli's trousers; he needed to be closer to him, needed him inside him, an extension of himself, a missing piece that could make Merab aware of every nerve ending in his own body.

Merab lifted his hips from Irakli's lap and saw the other man look up longingly, fearful of the space opening between them. He kissed him for reassurance and tugged one-handed at the fabric of Irakli's trousers until he got the idea and pulled them off his arse and far enough down his legs to kick off.

Merab murmured approving sounds against his mouth, about to settle into Irakli's lap once more, as Irakli's hands came back to rest against him, as one travelled low again, fingers following the curve of his arse, teasing between cheeks, pushing towards his hole.

Merab whispered encouragement, trying not to let his impatience come through as Irakli's cool fingertips stroked and teased around nerve endings alight with anticipation.

Irakli's eyes were closed, a small divot of concentration between his brows. Merab held his jaw between his hands and looked down at him, watching every shift in his expression as he increased the pressure of his forefinger, pushing past the resisting muscle to find a way inside.

Merab kissed lips that were pressed tight in trepidation, breathed a " _Yes_ " against them and shifted his body weight, encouraging Irakli to go deeper.

Briefly, Irakli's eyes flickered open, and Merab marvelled at how pretty they were, lined with their long, dark lashes.

"It's ok?" he murmured, and Merab saw him swallow nervously.

" _Yeah_." Merab tried not to laugh at the uncertainty in his voice. He'd has his cock in there; why should his finger be any different? But he reminded himself that this was all even newer for Irakli than it was for him now. It wasn't like the first time, when Merab had abandoned his compunctions about how special it might be to have sex in a park, and they'd both, fumblingly, with bravura, figured out what they could do together. It wasn't like the rush of urgency that had swept over them when Irakli had brought Merab to this room after returning to Tbilisi, either, when their touches had been little more than a frantic scramble to make up for lost time.

Now, they were building on something together, figuring out what felt good, taking the time to remember which touches elicited the greatest sounds of bliss. It was all practice, the revision of a lover's body, like one would practice for a recital, while realising the learning would continue even afterwards. Merab couldn't wait to learn all he could about what Irakli wanted and to give it to him again and again.

Now determined, evidently, to offer him the same, Irakli gave Merab a small nod of understanding and adjusted the grip of his other fingers so he could push in past the knuckle - he crooked his finger as he did, clenching his hand around Merab's arse, and the tip grazed the bundle of nerves that had been waiting for his touch.

Merab arched his face over Irakli's and let out an unsteady gasp. "Again…" He heard the plea in his own voice and took in a deep breath to settle himself. "Do that again..."

"Like...?" Irakli clenched his hand around the muscle of Merab's arse and the finger that was inside him twitched again.

Merab held onto the sound that tried to escape him and allowed only a small whimper against Irakli's mouth. "Yeah. Like that. But go deeper."

Carefully, Irakli positioned his hand as well he could for leverage, and Merab held himself as near to Irakli as possible to give him the easiest angle. His cock pressed against Irakli's sternum and Irakli looked down at it and let out a laugh as though it was demanding attention he could not spare at present. He pushed his finger deeper again, and Merab groaned at the way he was held, straddling Irakli on his knees, his cock trapped between the forward thrust of his hips and Irakli's chest, Irakli's hand stuck between his arse cheeks, his finger inside him.

Merab leaned his face back to the ceiling and balanced himself with his hands on Irakli's shoulders. He relaxed into the feeling of the digit reaching inside him, stroking, pressing against hot walls of muscle that stung with need. He didn't once expect the next thing, that Irakli managed to bow his head awkwardly and enclose the tip of Merab's cock in his mouth.

Irakli’s tongue pushed down hard as his lips tightened; his hands tightened too and Merab felt a bolt of heat go through him, felt like he was suspended on the line of electric feeling created between Irakli's finger and his mouth.

It couldn't have been a comfortable angle for Irakli’s neck, but he strained to keep his mouth on Merab's cock for as long as he was able, once he noted Merab's response. His tongue moved over and over with uneven pressure until Merab's hands slid up his shoulders and neck to cup his jaw and gently draw him back, until Merab fell upon his wet lips with a flurry of kisses.

He bit Irakli's lip as Irakli continued to push inside him with his finger, and, beneath his teeth, Merab felt a satisfied smile that echoed his own satisfaction earlier: Irakli had figured out something of the effect he could have on Merab.

It was with regret that Merab cast a glance back at the floor - he'd not really been thinking about making his pockets accessible when he'd hurried to get out of his trousers.

Irakli saw him look and understood. He grinned in the way he had that made his whole cheek crease, and held onto Merab as he shuffled them both closer to the edge of the bed. He was shaking with laughter that Merab shared bemusedly, stretching out one foot to catch the edge of the fabric with his toes. He drew it across the floor until Merab could reach down with his fingertips and lift it to fish out the condom and the lube.

"You're welcome," Irakli murmured cheekily into the kisses he craned his neck for. He flexed his hand on Merab's arse, his finger still inside him as he did so, and Merab stifled a groan as he looked down at Irakli's smug face.

Merab carefully guided Irakli's hand away from him, feeling momentarily empty and cold as he did. Then, none too gently, he pushed Irakli's chest so that he fell back and hit the bed covers, his arms falling to either side of him in a surprised sprawl. Spread beneath Merab's body, flushed and awe-struck, he looked vulnerable but also the happiest Merab thought he'd ever seen him. It made the smirk on his own lips waver between wickedness and tenderness, and Merab found that he had to bend to kiss him again before dealing with the condom.

Irakli lay still and appreciative for the kiss and did not try to delay things by holding Merab to him. He watched him sit up again and ran his fingers carefully through the hair on Merab's thighs, up to the creases of his hips.

Merab tore open the foil with his teeth and saw Irakli's chest move with a gasp of interest at the gesture. He looked down at him from hooded eyes and prepared to roll the condom on with teasing strokes. Irakli watched every movement with silent longing, patient with the way Merab's hand toyed with him, but increasingly red in the cheeks. Merab watched his breathing send waves through his belly, noting the way his short hair had been scuffed this way and that against the bedding, and how strands clung in the sweat at his temples and forehead. Finally, Merab rolled the condom the whole way down Irakli’s erection and opened the second packet.

Irakli bit his lip at the way Merab massaged the lube over him, and reached for the packet himself, his fingers not quite steady as Merab squeezed the last of its contents out onto them. Irakli pushed his hand between Merab's legs and applied slick strokes of pressure around and inside his arsehole.

It just made Merab impatient for his cock instead, and he tried not to push Irakli's touch away too insistently before he moved himself forwards on the bed, guiding Irakli beneath him, between his legs. Irakli held Merab's arse, parting him as Merab settled onto the pressure of his cock, easing past the pleasurable sting of entry and sinking carefully lower, taking him deeper until he felt full up.

Irakli's hips arched up off the bed and Merab pushed against him, letting Irakli's wandering hands draw him forward into a kiss.

Merab began to rock his hips, feeling each movement inside him, flexing his body against the confines of Irakli's arms, then gasping and arching into the feeling of Irakli's nails running up his spine. Irakli tried to hold him close, but Merab wanted to move freely, and their rhythm became a kind of tussle: Irakli pulled at Merab with his hands on his thighs, his arse, his back, and Merab flexed his body, sitting up tall, his splayed fingers braced against Irakli's chest or the bedding.

When the cold air started to bite into his sweaty skin, Merab conceded at last to the demands of Irakli's hands and lowered himself into his embrace. His warm arms snaked around Merab's back and his kisses were careful, too soft and measured to become messy as they continued to move together. Merab didn't think much of it when Irakli's grip shifted on his legs, but he sucked his breath in hard as Irakli's hips thrust up suddenly, and he twisted to the side, bringing Merab to the bed next to him, rolling over the leg that was trapped beneath them until he was above Merab, his kisses growing less gentle, his rhythm slow and deliberate, his cock driving against the nerve centre inside him so that Merab whined into his mouth.

"Like that?" Irakli asked so quietly that Merab's pleasure-fogged mind took a moment to understand it as speech. "Is that good?"

He hoped the sound he made inside Irakli's mouth as he kissed him, open-mouthed and hungry, made it clear that it was, indeed, good.

Irakli held his cheek as he kissed him and then let his hand rove down, pausing to offer a few hesitant strokes of Merab's cock before he took one of Merab's legs in his grip, his fingers tight on the back of his thigh, and lifted it from the bed, pushing Merab's knee up towards his chest so that he could press his hips flush with Merab's body as he moved inside him.

Merab moaned again and felt his face flush with heat. He screwed his eyes shut against the intense burst of sensation and was dimly aware of Irakli's mouth on the edge of his, of his breath dampening his skin as he smiled and said, "Shhh," in a way that gave Merab goosebumps and made him want to be anything but quiet.

The sensation of Irakli's strong hold on his leg, of his body pinning Merab to the sheets, controlling the speed and the pressure of every movement, made Merab think of the dizzy feeling he'd had the first time Irakli had touched him: confident, presumptuous hands fixing his stance in the empty studio, lingering a little too long for Merab's comfort because the firmness was accompanied by a questing, mischievous gaze that had left Merab feeling raw. Then Irakli had drunkenly pushed him against the door in his grandmother's apartment as David snored in the next room. He'd had his hands on Merab's shoulders, his intense expression so close that Merab had smelled the alcohol on his lips. The memory of the shock he'd felt at what these touches did to him returned now, and Merab held on tight to Irakli, his face buried in his neck, his features screwed up hard as he concentrated on every spark of feeling, every point of contact.

Irakli wasn't able to keep the speed of his thrusts as measured now, and Merab felt himself sliding towards the inevitable; the need to delay seemed less and less important. The pressure building up inside him was like a solid tangle of fire in his guts; it made him ache for release as Irakli's body mantled over his, as the pre-cum on Merab's cock caught in the hairs covering Irakli's belly.

The world shrank down around them: there was nothing for Merab beyond the movement of Irakli's shoulders under his desperate hold, the smell of his skin where Merab pressed his face against the pulse in his neck, the beat of his body building to a crescendo, Irakli's rhythm seeming more a part of him now than the action of a separate person.

He couldn't have said who came first; it took all his control just to clench his jaw shut, press his lips together, and limit his response to a juddering whimper against Irakli's skin. Irakli must have had the same problem: he burrowed his face against Merab's chest and left a red bruise in the shape of his mouth on the plane of muscle above one nipple.

Irakli made a rough sound in the back of his throat and blinked down at what he'd done. "Sorry, sorry..." he murmured, more to Merab's chest than to his face as he bowed to kiss the mark with soft lips that felt like a brand on Merab's body.

"Don't apologise!" Merab laughed shakily and stroked his palms over Irakli's shoulders and biceps, studying his face as he did: Irakli looked stunned at himself once more, his face red, warm when Merab lifted a soothing touch to his cheek, his hair sticking to his forehead, his mouth flushed and swollen.

Irakli released Merab's leg gently and ran his hand up to cup his face as he kissed him, flexing his hips slowly against him as though wringing out the last vestiges of his pleasure. It felt oddly tender to Merab, who had grown used to the way he and Thomas had fucked and separated without sentimentality.

The contrast deepened as Irakli withdrew slowly, still kissing Merab. He'd brought a box of tissues into his room this time and laughed, leaning into Merab as he tried to fish them out from beneath the bed without breaking the skin contact they still shared.

"Go and get it." Merab laughed at him, his words punctuated by Irakli's toothy, soft kisses, sampling the textures all over his lips and mouth, again and again.  
"I'll go and get it," Irakli promised, but didn't move until he had satisfied himself with another greedy hoard of kisses.

Merab shivered when Irakli did get up, and watched him move like an apparition in the moonlight, bending to retrieve the box, returning to the bed with it like it was some kind of gift or offering. Merab wanted to laugh at the ridiculousness of this thought, but he was too struck with the way Irakli looked, the dark pattern of hair on his chest and belly and groin, the way his eyes and smile shone in the cool light.

Merab grabbed a tissue and settled instead to tidying himself up with a puzzled smile at his own whirling feelings.

When they finally got beneath the covers together, Merab's body was tired in the most satisfied way, but his heart felt like it had been pummelled by wild things. He sought refuge in the welcome warmth of Irakli's body and did not try to ask any more questions of him. He wanted, before he slept, to keep the feeling he'd had when he'd forgotten where he ended and Irakli began as fresh as he could. He wanted to pretend nothing could separate them, no one could entice Irakli away again, because they were a single unit, indivisible.

But Irakli did not know Merab's thoughts, and his stubborn gestures of affection made Merab excruciatingly aware of how separate they were, of how good it felt when another person held him and comforted him and would not let him be alone.

There were no arms like the ones that encircled his back in that narrow bed. No one else stroked his skin with their fingertips in that detached, yet deliberate way; no one else seemed to offer such a perfect fit for his body against theirs. The hollow between Irakli's jaw and his shoulder accepted Merab's head and the rhythm of his breathing matched Merab's thoughtlessly, effortlessly, naturally. But they were always separate, because Irakli's fingers always moved, mapping out the geography of Merab's back.

Even so, the feeling of Irakli's gentle touch stilled Merab while his thoughts and heart raced with one another. He felt himself relaxing towards sleep and wanted to finish the long day with a fitting gesture. He peered up from the warmth he had burrowed into and kissed Irakli, who made a sleepy sound of pleasure.

"Good night," Merab murmured as he shuffled in close within Irakli's arms once more.

He felt Irakli smile into his hair.

"Yeah, it was," he agreed, and drew Merab against him.


	58. Chapter 58

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My feelings about Merab's relationship with his parents, let me show you them:
> 
> (perhaps it's an optimistic take on Ioseb's response to Merab, but I chose to put Merab under his roof in this fic and didn't want to make things awful for him. I hope you agree that it's still a plausible take on Ioseb's character ^^)

There was a firm hand on his shoulder when he woke, and it was shaking him insistently. Merab screwed his face up and rubbed his eyes with the backs of his wrists.

"What?" he complained.

He heard Irakli's quiet laughter and it jolted him awake. Merab lowered his hands and looked up at Irakli, who was propped up on an elbow, smiling down at him.

"Is something wrong? Do you need me to go?"

Irakli's expression shifted minutely as something tender came into his eyes. Merab had come to think of it as a look of preemptive apology, like the one Irakli had cast him at the wedding service before he broke Merab's heart last year. He felt something inside him flinch in response to it and tried to steel himself for whatever Irakli was about to say.

"I don't need you to go," Irakli said softly. His hand squeezed Merab's shoulder. "But I don't know what time it is. It's pretty bright - and don't you have to get to Eliava today?"

Merab blinked and rubbed his eyes again. The shutter was still open and crisp winter sun streamed into the little room.

"Oh, shit..." Merab muttered, but he didn't rush to get up. The air was cold, but beneath the covers his legs were warm against Irakli's. Irakli's hand was heavy on his shoulder and he looked concerned on Merab's behalf, but most of all he looked warm and soft and his arms seemed like a nice place to while away hour after hour in that slice of pale sun.

Still, Merab sighed and made himself sit up. Irakli did not hide his regret well, and Merab wrestled with a satisfied smile at the longing that was momentarily exposed in Irakli's eyes. He kissed him and swung his legs out of bed before either of them could encourage the other to extend the kiss.

Merab picked his way across the cold floor. His jacket and shirt were still tangled together, the cables of the headphones leaking from one pocket. He picked up his jacket and pulled his phone out. It must have continued playing the tracks he had on it until the battery died; he showed the blank screen to Irakli and shrugged.

Irakli winced and rubbed his stubble-dark jaw with a hand. "Shit. Sorry." He looked up ruefully.

Merab thought about what time it probably was - the sun was high enough to have risen above the buildings that towered over the city. The market would be open and Ioseb would be complaining about the cold, complaining about his joints, complaining about the shit coffee his friend Tornike brought him. He'd add a nip of brandy to it and help his neighbours set up their stalls as they helped him set up his own. He'd complain that Merab was late and he'd watch his friends' reactions, daring them to judge him and his feckless son, him and his shattered family, his ridiculous, glorious past. His friends would shake their heads and make noncommittal comments about the youth, the government, the state of the world, but they'd say to Ioseb, "You're doing the right thing. You're giving him the stability you never had; you're an example to him. If he can't see that, well, at least you can say you tried." Merab knew that Ioseb listened cynically when his friends said such things - he mocked their generosity even as he deeply, truly appreciated it - and he knew that Ioseb would worry if Merab left it too late before turning up.

They never talked about where Merab went, or who he went out with. It wasn’t so much that Ioseb was sympathetic to Merab’s lifestyle as that he greeted it with his customary weary resignation: when he had learned that Merab had left the ensemble and broken up with Mary, he had seen it both as appropriate – it confirmed his opinion that Merab had never been good enough for such things - and as just punishment for his own failings as a father. He had stopped asking Merab whether he had found a new girlfriend shortly after that, following an injudicious roll of Merab’s eyes at Tornike’s Russian porn collection and an encounter at the public baths, where Ioseb often joined his friends from the market after work. Merab had gone along once, out of a sense of obligation, and in the steamy pools of Orbeliani he'd recognised a group of guys from the dancefloor at Bassiani. Whatever moment of acknowledgement had passed between them hadn't been missed by Ioseb, Merab was certain. Merab had never gone back to Orbeliani with the old guys from the market and Ioseb had only made some passing comment about things making a great deal of sense to him now.

The avoidance of the topic was something both of them clung to with wary gratitude. It was a chasm around which they moved, exchanging only knowing looks across its maw. If Merab caught Ioseb reading an article about a hate crime with serious, scowling indignation, both pretended not to have noticed the other. Ioseb’s concern, Merab was certain, did not come from a place of solidarity, but from his conviction that Merab could not take care of himself.

Regardless, it meant that Ioseb would worry if Merab never arrived at the market and never contacted him. Ioseb might then do something stupid, like call Nona and Inga, or - heaven forbid - David.

"Do you have a charger?" Merab asked Irakli, holding his dead phone in his palm.

Irakli blinked and rolled over to search beneath the bed. He came up with his own phone, still attached to its charging cable, and Merab's jaw tightened when he saw the shattered screen.

Irakli unplugged it and flung the phone back into the dust and shadows beneath the bed before offering Merab the charger. There was still an apology in his eyes as he looked up, so Merab sat on the bed beside him as he took the charging cable. He wrapped his fingers deliberately around Irakli's hand and kissed him slowly, deeply. He leaned his forehead against Irakli's and murmured: "It's ok, he probably owes me some time off by now..."

"Yeah?" Irakli's dark eyes roved nervously over his face. "Sorry though. I always seem to mess up your shifts." He laughed nervously, and Merab closed his eyes at the unspoken plea for reassurance.

"It's fine." He shrugged. "It'll take me a while to save enough anyway - I'd rather see you in the meantime..." He smiled at Irakli and was surprised to see that Irakli's nervousness had only deepened.

He moved his head away from Merab's and nodded, like he was trying to be brave about something. The smile he searched for was woefully unconvincing. "When do you think you'll have enough to go?"

"Hm? Go where?"

Irakli's eyes were wide, his cheeks pale. He shrugged. "I mean. You're going to leave, right? David said -"

"Fucking David!" Merab exclaimed, the heat of indignation making him louder than he'd intended. He slapped a hand over his mouth and looked at the door, but there was no indication that Irakli's grandmother had heard him.

Merab turned back to Irakli, his phone forgotten on the bed beside them. He brought Irakli's face to his, his hands on either side of that stiff, worried jaw, and Merab pressed their noses together. "I'm not leaving, if that's what David said. I'm just trying to save up enough for my own place, that's all - some of us have talked about getting somewhere run down and fixing it up, sharing it between us."

Irakli studied him in silence and then forced out a relieved-sounding laugh.

"It's a bit of a dream at the moment," Merab admitted. "None of us make that much, and we probably spend more than we should at Bassiani..." He smiled.

Irakli tried to nod as though he understood, as though he wanted to appear casual now, at ease with whatever Merab chose to do with his time and money.

"So..." Merab said, kissing Irakli's firm mouth. "You're actually saving me cash, because I didn't go clubbing last night..."

Finally, Irakli's face softened in Merab's hold and he laughed again, more easily this time.

"Oh. Glad to help with your budgeting." The return of his smirk made Merab's heart soar. It occurred to him, suddenly, that if Irakli had been worrying about Merab leaving, then maybe he wasn't thinking so much of a return to Batumi himself as Merab had feared...

Merab kissed him fiercely, gratefully, and only just remembered to peel himself away and plug his phone in before he dived back beneath the covers and let Irakli warm him with his full body. Irakli's arms and legs were wrapped around Merab and his laughter was ticklish against Merab’s shoulder and neck. Merab rolled against him, pushing Irakli onto his back, his touch growing possessive.

"So, what do you usually do on a Sunday?" he asked, his gaze roving up Irakli's face with admiring steadiness.

Irakli stared back at him hungrily and seemed to have to jog himself to provide an answer. "Ah, you know...go for a run maybe, take the neighbour's dog for a walk, wait for the football highlights..."

This exotic mundanity made Merab smile. But before he could invite himself to join in with these activities, a noise from the kitchen indicated that Rusudan was up and rummaging through the cupboards.

"And..." Irakli sighed. "I usually start by getting tea and breakfast for Grandma."

"Mm," Merab rolled off him with regret. "I guess I should call my dad..." He watched Irakli pull on his jogging bottoms and a t-shirt, and still felt like he hadn't fully woken up when Irakli took a step back across the room to kiss him on the mouth before he went out.

After a moment, he stuck his head back round the door. "Tea?"

Merab beamed at him in answer, and Irakli shut the door after himself.

Ioseb let his phone ring and Merab rolled his eyes as he lay sprawled across the bed, leaning over the edge so the phone remained plugged in.

"Boy, what time do you call this, then?" Ioseb finally picked up.

"I can't get there today. I'll be ridiculously late," Merab answered just as tersely.

Ioseb sighed. He didn't want to ask for details, and Merab was banking on this making things easier. "Are you asking me for a day off? Sick day?"

"I'm not sick," Merab corrected him. "I'm fine. Just a day off."

Ioseb muttered something about grand European ideas and how things had been in his time - he paused to talk to a fellow vendor about how hard the Soviets had worked them and how poorly the youths of today would cope.

Merab rolled onto his back, feeling the sheets tighten and twist around his body. He echoed his father's sigh.

"Fine, I suppose I'll manage it alone today." Ioseb's voice had softened a little - he knew how Merab could apply himself, how he had applied himself to dance - he knew that market work wasn't what either of them wanted for him, and he was at long last getting the idea that pushing Merab harder yielded only stubbornness in return if it wasn't something Merab had chosen to do. "But tomorrow I want you to clean those components on the back shelf. You've been avoiding it long enough, but I could sell them if they were tidied up."

"Fine," Merab snapped back. It was dirty work, and he hated doing it in the winter cold, with the wire brush and the freezing air catching at his skin, but he could handle that tomorrow if he got to spend a day in Irakli's company in the meantime.

"If you're in this evening, bring some bread, will you?" Ioseb asked.

"Mm," Merab agreed, but he was already focused on the sound of the door opening, of the promise of Irakli's return.

Irakli held two vessels of tea carefully in his long, tapering fingers, and he laughed back at something his grandmother called as he closed the door with his arse.

Merab dropped his phone to the bed and scooted his body over to give Irakli space to sit. He basked in the warmth of the smile he received, and leaned up for a kiss that was returned happily.

He did not think once about the bread until he was already most of the way back to Ioseb's flat that evening, and he had to double back to a kiosk for what he could find there, the bakeries long since having sold out and closed. His head was full of the day's conversation, replaying every little touch or gesture, every sign Irakli seemed to give him that said how comfortable he was with the way they were. It had reminded Merab of the long days at Mary's place: chatting, figuring each other out, searching for interests in common and stories to share.

Ioseb must still have been out at the baths or the bars when Merab got in. With the tiny corner kitchen to himself, Merab sang under his breath, moving his hips to the memory of a song he and Irakli had danced to last night. He made a sandwich that he didn't really feel like eating, left it on the side with a bite out of it, paced and stretched as he thought about Irakli's smile and his goofy laugh when he was telling a story that put him in a ridiculous light.

He wanted to dance; being with Irakli always made him want to dance. He wanted to use every inch of his body, to express the energy Irakli gave him through the stretch of his limbs and the shapes he could form. He practised a few moves for Ali's scene changes in the middle of the little flat, watching his reflection in the long, dark window: a restless spirit projected against the city lights outside.

While he was in the shower, he heard the thin front door open and close with a hollow bang. In response, he pushed the bathroom door fully shut and locked it as he got out of the shower. The bathroom mirror was small and misted up, but before climbing into the shower he'd noticed the arcing red marks on his shoulders, the tracks following his spine. The brand left by Irakli's mouth on his chest was even clearer: a red welt, the pattern of teeth visible as a dark border. Merab wiped the mirror clear to examine it in the reflection, his fingers questing around the bruise. He felt like as long as it lasted, he would be certain of Irakli's feelings, like it was some kind of promise. Merab's mouth twisted into a smirk: like it was a promise they'd made that one day, somewhere, they would be together without worrying about who might hear.

He pulled on the t-shirt and underwear he'd brought into the bathroom with him and emerged into the chilly darkness of the flat.

Ioseb was sitting by the TV, watching a late night news broadcast and eating a sandwich. He glanced up at Merab and grunted a greeting as he chewed.

"Have you used up all the hot water?" he grumbled at the steam that followed Merab from the bathroom.

"No..." Merab opened a window to let the moisture out and wrapped a blanket around his shoulders as the cold got in. He sat down on the old couch that doubled as his bed, his legs crossed beneath him as he picked at the sandwich he'd made earlier.

Ioseb seemed to return his attention to the news, but after a while he gave Merab a sideways look. "How's your brother and his Armenian wife?"

Merab rolled his eyes.

"His _wife_ ," Ioseb repeated testily.

"They're fine."

"Is your mother doing well?"

Merab shrugged. "I think so."

"Hm," Ioseb grunted. "And your brother is really providing for them all, is he? They don't need anything?"

He watched the TV screen as he asked, like it didn't matter either way to him, but Merab knew he felt even more powerless now that his occasional contributions to his ex-wife were not needed. He had no outlet for the guilt or the sense of responsibility he retained.

But still, Merab tutted: he was sick of being the emissary between Ioseb and Inga and David, and yet he couldn't see himself ever escaping the role. He pulled the blanket tighter about his body, drawing his knees up to his chest.

"They don't need anything. Sopo's family are taking care of everything with the baby. David's work is good."

Ioseb grunted again, unsurprised, apparently unconcerned. "Why don't you ask your brother if he can get you work?"

"Don't you want my help?" Merab bristled defensively.

"That's not what I said." Ioseb's voice rose, his palm opened as he gestured to emphasise his words, though he still looked at the TV rather than Merab. "But I thought you had ambition, boy! What are you doing, spending every day with me in that dump? The place should have been closed down years ago. It's a place for relics."

Merab sighed dramatically. _This_ again.

"Don't give me that, boy - I thought you were signing up for classes this semester - have you done it?"

"No..."

Ioseb switched the television off and leaned his elbow over the arm of his chair. He turned to look at Merab, and Merab knew that meant trouble: candid, well-intentioned trouble. "I know the audition was a disappointment. But if you set yourself reasonable goals that won't happen so much, hm? How about a finance course? Help your old man run his books?"

Merab leaned his chin on his knees and frowned at the floor, the blanket tight about his body. He wanted Ioseb to leave and let him settle once more into his memories of the weekend. He didn't want to lie again about his intentions - not when he'd intended, for so long now, to apply to the dance programme at the Academy of Arts - not when he kept finding excuses not to, when his routines didn't come together, when he kept thinking about all he'd done in the audition for the main ensemble and what he'd proven in the end. To almost everyone who hadn't been in that room, it seemed that he'd only proved what they'd told him again and again: that he wasn't good enough and had been wasting his time.

So, these days, by and large, he only danced around people who knew nothing about dance: Ali and Mate, the crowds in Bassiani. He wasn't self-conscious in front of Mary; she'd seen it all. She judged him by standards he recognised as well as his own, and he knew it had been long enough since he'd danced for his family that his grandmother Nona would be quite content with the performance at Sopo's birthday party. If anything, it was the opposite problem with his grandmother: she couldn't understand what had gone wrong. Aleko was too diplomatic to say when she bothered him about it, and Beso simply refused to talk about it out of respect for his shared history with Merab's relatives at the ensemble. At least Merab knew that Beso's disgust and disappointment hadn't spread to his whole family. Beso wanted to forget about him; Merab wanted to forget about Beso's standards.

Dancing with Irakli...that felt different. It came perilously close to the feeling he had when he thought about the audition too carefully: pride and defiance, the whole world pushed back, held at a distance as he drove monomaniacally towards his goal. It reminded him how much he wanted to be a part of the Academy...it reminded him how terrified he was of being rejected from the programme.

"I'll see what's running," Merab muttered.

His discomfort was palpable enough that Ioseb didn't push it. Instead, he stood up with a thoughtful grumble that was meant to hide the cracking of his joints.

"You see what you've missed out on?" he couldn't resist pointing out, rubbing the muscle of his leg just above his knee, waiting for feeling to return before shaking his foot out and walking stiffly to the kitchen counter for a glass of water.

Merab clenched his jaw, tightened his arms around his legs, and ground out a perfunctory “good night” in response to Ioseb's as he left.

The little room had filled with night air, but the condensation from the shower had almost cleared. Merab hurried to close the window and finish readying himself for bed. He burrowed his way into the thin couch cushions, the blanket tight about him, the cross on his necklace held thoughtfully between his lips. The sharp, cold taste of the metal helped him focus his thoughts, and he breathed deeply in the warmth beneath the covers. He wore Irakli's t-shirt at night - it had lost his scent, but Merab felt like he remembered it as he wrapped his arms about himself and imagined they were Irakli's.

He reminded himself that Irakli had his first shift with him at the bar later that week, and that when he next saw Mary she would have a phone for Irakli. Soon, he'd be able to text Irakli before falling asleep, closing the distance between them through the screen of his mobile, imagining Irakli's replies spoken in a laconic drawl against his ear. Merab pushed thoughts of applications and auditions from his head and fell asleep imagining all that he'd say to Irakli when he texted him at night.

In the morning, confused with sleep, he checked his phone and felt a stab of pain at the lack of messages. He was on the threshold of panic, convinced he had been left again, before he remembered that the texts had been a dream, and Irakli still did not have a phone. Uneasily, Merab lay back against the couch cushions and wondered whether he'd ever be able to text Irakli without fearing the lack of reply.


	59. Chapter 59

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last part of the update for now, just to reassure everyone that Irakli is going to be better about using his phone...

It was all Irakli could do to take his eyes off Merab.

In the bar, he shone: he laughed with regular customers, showed off some elaborate bottle throwing and mixing skills he'd learned, knocked back shots bought for him by friends, and lit up Irakli's whole world with his smile. When he pulled the taps to pour beer, Irakli found himself captivated by the shape and the flex of his forearms; when he stumbled through sentences in foreign languages with visitors to the bar - German, Russian, English, Turkish - Irakli paused, awestruck, to observe.

Being around him made Irakli giddy, even though Merab's colleague Elene was the one supervising him at the bar, even though he spent most of the evening gathering empty glasses and loading the washer. He felt himself laugh louder, joke more performatively, glance at Merab again and again to check whether he noticed.

Irakli was relieved when his shift ended, strung out and exhausted by the experience - though he'd had fun, and pocketed an amount in tips that surprised him. Before then, he’d only bartended casually, often at the same weddings where he'd danced, and this was a very different prospect: the bar was constantly busy, professional beneath the veneer of easygoing cool. As he'd worked, he'd chatted with Elene about himself and negotiated what he was willing to share about his recent past. He remembered when that had never been a concern and it irritated him like a stone in his shoe. And, all through it, he had just wanted to watch Merab do what he did, but feared that every glance was obvious, even as one stolen glimpse led him to another. When he had the opportunity to joke with Merab as he took glasses from the washer or sliced fruit for the cocktails, he felt as though for a moment the bar was theirs alone and they could say or do whatever they pleased. He touched Merab's elbow fleetingly as he moved past him, and felt like he'd taken a punch to the gut at the familiar smile he received.

After his shift, Irakli smoked with Merab in the alley at the back of the bar, and Merab watched him from the corner of his eye, a knowing, smug smile plastered across his features.

"I saw Mary earlier," he said.

Irakli's shift had begun before Merab's, and Merab's continued on now. There had been no opportunity to stop and talk together for long as they worked, and Irakli had been glad of that.

He found it hard to be around Merab without reaching out to him now, without staring openly at his features as he thought about holding him close, feeling his body against his own.

"Mm?" He tried to concentrate on the tip of his cigarette and not on Merab's smile.

"She gave me this for you." Merab held out a small black phone. It was old, the buttons worn, but it looked solid enough.

Irakli let his fingers brush Merab's as he took it. "Tell her thanks from me," he murmured.

Merab shook his head, mischief in his eyes. "Tell her yourself - if you need her number, just text me."

Irakli laughed. He looked down at the phone again and then up at Merab. There was something behind those hazel eyes, something in the easy curve of his mouth that retained a sense of unease - a tension that Irakli longed to reach out and smooth away, to dissolve with a kiss.

"I'll text you," he promised.

Merab chuckled nervously at the way he said it and looked away.

"As soon as I have credit," Irakli added with an apologetic laugh.

Merab nodded and shrugged as he drew on his cigarette, like it made no odds to him either way. But Irakli saw the flush of colour spread above the neck of his t-shirt. He wanted to place his mouth over that reddened skin, he wanted to taste the warmth of Merab's body on his tongue again and breathe in the scent of him.

Irakli swallowed and stubbed his cigarette out. He stepped away to stop himself from reaching out to touch Merab, and offered up a lop-sided smile instead. "Guess I'd better go."

Merab did not make a move to follow him. "Same shift tomorrow?" he murmured.

"Yeah..." And following the Friday shift he wouldn’t need to worry about an early start and a day of dance afterwards. He'd stay and order something - not because he wanted to drink it, but because he wanted to watch Merab make it - and maybe he'd take Merab home with him when Merab's shift finished. Irakli didn't know how to say any of this, but he met Merab's eyes as he backed carefully away from the bar. There seemed to be an understanding there at least: the hunger Irakli saw matched his own, the quirk of Merab’s mouth holding a promise for later.

"Night," Merab called quietly.

The tone made Irakli shiver - something in it was private and intimate in a way he hadn't realised a single word could be. He laughed stupidly, and wondered whether his unsteady response - "You too" - did justice to what he felt.

It made Merab smile, which was almost as good. Irakli turned and all but fled the alley, astonished at himself and at the crazy, half-numb, fizzy feeling in his body. He tucked his hands in his armpits and walked home with his head low, his gaze fixed to the pavement. Halfway through the cemetery, he realised he'd had a grin fixed onto his face the whole way, and he rubbed his hands over his jaw and cheeks, trying to massage the smile away.

Thinking of what he might text Merab, Irakli switched his sim over as soon as he got to his room, no longer bothered by the late hour or how tired he was.

After a moment the screen came to life and Irakli was forced to wait as the sim card scanned for all the messages he had missed since last using it. There were plenty from Luka and the guys at the ensemble - missed plans, bad jokes that had gone without a response. And those that he had not wanted to risk a stranger seeing as they repaired Irakli’s old phone: a few straggling gloats from Batumi - good riddance, did he know Zinaida was with a real man now - one or two perplexingly earnest conspiracy theorists asking him if he really understood the “agenda” of the people he had “sided with”.

With the distance of time and space between him and the senders of these messages, they seemed little more than a weak clamouring for attention to Irakli. He still felt a tremor of fear at some of the words - how could he not? - but the overall effect had become impotent. He deleted them with little more than a tut of annoyance, his thumb clicking the buttons on his inherited phone as he figured out how to most efficiently clear the shit out of his inbox.

He almost included one that began differently from the others, another unknown number, but the preview of this message made Irakli pause. He opened it cautiously.

_I don't know if this is still your number. But if it is - we were at high school together, same English class I think. Or Russian? Whatever, I just thought someone should say thank you. I didn't realise what happened when you stormed out of mass that weekend, but I heard about everything afterwards. I'm like you. My family don't know about it. I don't dare tell my friends. But you made me want to cheer by telling the priests what to do with their absolution. I hope things are working out better for you wherever you ended up. Peace._

Irakli blinked at the message and re-read it, assuming they must have got the wrong number.

His memories of the church service felt unfamiliar, as cold and detached from his life as a news report or a textbook. What had he said again? Irakli frowned at the floor and then let out a small laugh. He'd sworn at the priest, he was pretty sure of that part.

He lifted his legs onto the bed and settled in to read the message once more. He tried to remember who had been in those classes, but he couldn't even tell if the sender was male or female. He wondered whether he should reply - he wondered what he could say to something like that.

The date on the text was weeks ago, and it surprised him how much time had passed. It would be weird to reply now, wouldn't it? What could he say, just out of the blue? What if they wanted to continue the conversation, thinking he had some kind of insight into how to handle any of this? It would just remind him how out of his depth he was.

Irakli let out a long sigh and clicked through to the thread of messages under Merab's name.

The same unanswered pleas for reassurance met him as had done when he'd last looked. Back when he'd thought about asking Merab how the audition had gone all those months ago. When he'd never dreamed he'd ever see him again, let alone...

Irakli hunkered deeper into the bedding, the phone held up to his face. His pillow smelled of Merab's hair and his skin prickled with the absence of Merab's body against it.

_Teach me some of those flair skills tomorrow?_ Irakli typed. It seemed so inadequate. So grossly flippant it was almost an insult to what he felt when he thought about Merab. Yet that also seemed fitting - he wasn't good at the serious stuff, Irakli told himself. Better to keep things light. He'd be less likely to fuck up that way, and the consequences would be fewer.

He pressed send and held his breath until he was certain the message had sent - he thought he remembered topping the sim up not long before that messy weekend back home.

He resolved to go to sleep and not worry about replies, but he hadn't put the phone down before it buzzed urgently in his hand.

_So you can steal my tips? No way. You'll just have to do kintouri for the customers..._

Irakli laughed as silently as he could.

_I'll teach you how to do the bottle dance properly. We can team up..._

Was that too presumptuous? His thumb had already fallen thoughtlessly on the send button. Irakli swallowed and hoped, for a moment, that he didn't have the credit left to suggest such things.

But the message sent, and the reply came almost immediately.

_Looking forward to rehearsal together ;)_

He laughed again. He wished he had Merab with him - at least flirting in person gave him the illusion of control; at least then he could see the effect of his words when Merab flushed, or he could kiss him and derail his saucy replies, his appreciative smile.

Reluctantly, Irakli lowered the phone to the floor. He lay on his side, trying to relax, and, before he noticed sleep coming, it was morning again.

Getting ready to go to the studio, he checked his phone – he was still surprised at its presence, at the evidence of the previous night. He re-read the messages with Merab and the anonymous gratitude from Batumi, and he wondered what sort of person got messages like that, and whether they had anything in common with the kind of person he'd previously assumed himself to be. He thought he should have something to say to the message from Batumi, but it seemed like a responsibility he didn’t know how to handle. For now, he’d be happy if he didn’t fuck up the conversation with Merab. He checked his credit as he left the flat and stopped at a phone booth to top it up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so so much everyone who reads and comments and leaves a kudos, or who likes the posts I make on tumblr <3 I appreciate you all so much, seeing your user names or anonymous hearts always brightens my day. Wishing you all the best for a peaceful and safe holiday season, and I hope I will have an update again soon for you. ^^


	60. Chapter 60

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Irakli finally summons up the courage to meet Merab's friends.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Megobrebo, friends, thank you for your patience <3  
> I'm sorry for the wait, it's kind of another transition point in the fic and it took me a little time to piece these chapters together. But today I bring you mostly fluff, with hints of angst to come. All will work out in the end though.

With a reputation that preceded him - whatever Merab had said they were last summer, whatever he might have hinted at them being now - Irakli had feared that Merab's friends would be cool towards him, or cordial only for Merab's sake. He was prepared to take the night with as much or as little seriousness as it demanded - he felt ready to defend himself as needed.

In the end, however, he didn't get a chance to overthink the meeting. The bar was crammed with Friday night crowds, and all the staff worked relentlessly to meet the demand for drinks. A guy waiting at the counter shouted over the noise, demanding to know why the TV hadn't been turned on for the football, and Irakli fumbled with the remote, cursing at it when his jabbing of buttons elicited no immediate response from the screen on the wall.

To make small talk as he tried to coax the screen to life, he asked the customer who he thought would win that night.

A third person interrupted, a gust of flamboyant energy that arrived beside the man Irakli had been addressing.

"Oh, Bayern, all the way," said the man who Irakli recognised as Mate, as he leaned one hand on his companion's shoulder and waved the other decisively through the hot, sticky atmosphere.

Mate pinned Irakli with a wide-eyed stare, his mouth a generous-lipped pout, his shoulder-length hair immaculate and shimmering despite the sweaty air of the bar.

"Hello," Mate added, reappraising Irakli. "Are you covering for Elene?"

"No, she's doing stock check, I'm new here," Irakli said cagily, concentrating on the remote and the TV harder than ever. Finally, the little green light in the corner blinked on, and Irakli waited for the screen to catch up, wondering if Mate was still looking at him, trying to get his measure. If he'd sussed him out already.

"I'm Mate. I know everyone here."

The other man extended a fine-boned hand and Irakli shook it with a grin that verged on a grimace. "My name's Irakli."

Mate's big blue eyes grew even wider, his grip tightening for a moment on Irakli's hand. He looked over to the other end of the bar, where Merab was busy crushing ice and mint together in a glass, laughing carelessly with a customer as he worked.

"Oh! You're, ah - a friend of Merab's, right?"

The delicacy of the question, the expression of polite interest on Mate's face, made Irakli blush as much as a more direct interrogation would have. With his other hand, he flicked the TV to the correct channel and tried not to fumble the remote into the sink as he turned to replace it in its spot by the till. He wiped his hands on his jeans and shrugged at Mate. "Yeah," he admitted, feeling breathless and a little sick.

But Mate just smiled. He turned to ask his companion what he was drinking and asked Irakli for two beers.

As he handed them over, they exchanged a few more words about the match - Mate was supporting the German club, and they sparred cautiously over their opinions of who would score and when. Then Irakli had to get on and serve another customer and that was that. He looked over at where Mate and his friend had joined some others at a table near the TV screen and felt silly that he'd worried so much about the meeting.

From the other end of the bar, he felt the pressure of Merab's stare and met it with a laugh of relief. Merab's grin unfurled in response and Irakli's thoughts were momentarily wiped blank by the way he looked: that broad, easy smile that made crinkles appear at the corner of his eyes, the dark cowlicks falling across his brow, the muscles in his arm flexing as he worked with his hands.

Irakli shook his head at himself and turned back to the customers at bar. "Who was next?" He grinned at them.

As his shift came to an end, Merab asked him to help change a keg of beer before he finished. They left Elene minding the bar and Irakli followed him into the cellar, watching the way his t-shirt draped over his shoulders, the way his hips swayed gently as he went down the steps into the gloom.

The old fluorescent bulb hanging from the stone above them took a while to come to life. It sputtered yellow light on the shelves and boxes and barrels around them, deepening shadows but making Merab's pale t-shirt seem luminescent. It made Irakli think of a warm glow filtering through the swaying branches of trees at a vineyard in the countryside.

Merab glanced back, as though he had detected the thought going through Irakli's mind, and his smile was like a new language to Irakli, one that only he could interpret.

They changed the keg wordlessly, grinning at the opportunity to work together in close proximity. Afterwards, Irakli leaned on the wooden slats of the shelf holding the barrel and blinked at the question in Merab's eyes, at the hungry look that seemed, still, to seek permission from him. He glanced back at the stairs up to the bar and made himself stand still when Merab's hand slid over his.

Merab's fingers were cool and sticky from spilled beer. He looked at his hand and not at Irakli's face, and Irakli could see his chest move beneath his thin t-shirt.

"Are you going to stay for a bit?" Merab murmured, glancing up sharply, his voice soft, his hand taking a slightly firmer grip on Irakli's knuckles.

Irakli laughed but it didn't sound at all brave. "Yeah, ok..." He tried to sound defensive in the face of Merab's scrutiny, but his voice cracked absurdly. "I want to see the football."

The slight narrowing of Merab's eyes, the smirk that seemed to accept Irakli's evasive words, his decision to joke about things rather than be direct, made Irakli's pulse run fast. Merab's hand was still on his hand. They were standing pretty close together, and above them the fluorescent bulb was spreading a brightening glow through the cellar, as though it was only gradually remembering some distant specification it was meant to adhere to.

"Just the football?"

Irakli shrugged with one shoulder and laughed, but he had to scratch the scar beneath his eye with his free hand to hide the colour that Merab's expression brought to his face.

"All right, do you want to introduce me to your friends, then?" Irakli relented, speaking in a rush as he noticed that Merab had come a little closer.

Merab smiled, and that was all Irakli could think of as he leaned in, his head tilting, lips feeling half-numb and sought the kiss he simply had to claim. It had been a week since he'd last kissed Merab, and he didn't want to wait any longer.

Merab returned his touch with gentle sweetness, though Irakli guessed from his momentary, surprised hesitation that he had not expected it.

"What shall I say to them?" Merab murmured playfully against his mouth.

Irakli thought he should move away, that they shouldn't test their luck, their privacy, any further, as they stood under the brightening fluorescent light. But the feeling of Merab's lips against his, the smell of him and the tightness of his hand over Irakli's all made Irakli want to fight off the feeling of guilt and urgency. He held still, challenging himself further to enjoy the moment - they'd replaced the barrel and Elene would be busy pouring fresh beers, so she was not at all likely to come rushing into the cellar.

"I don't know," he said with a short laugh. "What do they know already?"

Merab closed his eyes and laughed silently, pressing his forehead and nose against Irakli's. His free hand stroked a line down Irakli's sternum and belly - a gesture that was unthinkingly casual and yet made every one of Irakli's nerves sting hot and cold at once.

"Different things," Merab murmured. "They pretty much all know that you had to leave..."

"Had to..." Irakli repeated softly.

Merab's hand squeezed his. He looked up and his hazel eyes were round, lit from an angle by the fluorescent bulb, so Irakli saw all the mysterious green pathways hidden there.

Before Merab could elaborate on this reassurance, the sound of the cellar door opening made them both flinch and step away from each other, away from the beer kegs.

Irakli shoved his trembling fingers into his pockets and looked nervously up at the stairs, but Elene didn’t come down or even fully open the door.

"Are you guys finished with the new barrel? I could use a hand up here..."

"Coming," Merab called.

The look he cast Irakli held a promise, and Irakli caught himself marvelling at how composed he appeared already.

He followed Merab slowly up the stairs and heard him say to Elene, "I was just showing Irakli the fuse box, in case we have problems like we did last year."

"Oh yeah, good thinking," she replied.

Irakli switched off the cellar light and closed the door. He watched Merab hurry to the bar to help Elene with a rush of customers and decided to join them both - his shift might be over, but there'd be a few extra tips in it, perhaps.

By the time Merab had the chance to introduce him to Mate and the others, he still felt detached from his surroundings, as though he'd torn something off himself when they'd sprung apart at the sound of the cellar door opening.

Merab said nothing specific about whatever they were now. He told his friends Irakli worked at the bar now, that he'd had to leave Batumi - Irakli's mind echoed that phrase again, _had to_ \- and no one asked for more details than they were given.

Irakli smiled vaguely, tightly, at Merab's friends and sat down to focus on the football, playing with the beer glass in front of him but barely drinking from it. He only half-listened to their talk, and answered any attempts to engage him in conversation with brief, noncommittal phrases. He stared at the screen without really focussing on the game, frozen like an animal caught in car headlights as fear rolled over his mind like smog.

He frowned sharply when someone nudged his elbow and made him look away from the match.

Mate threw his head back and laughed at Irakli's expression. "It's not _that_ good a game!"

An androgynous looking person on the other side of the table glanced up at the screen. "No, but there are other reasons to stare, I suppose..."

Irakli felt himself bristle at the implication, and he looked sharply up to remind himself who was playing, and what opinions he should have of the teams.

Throwing back the last of his beer, Mate just laughed again though. "I think they were better before the recent signings."

Slowly, Irakli felt himself being drawn back out of his thoughts. Mate said things that were deliberately provocative, setting up arguments that, eventually, Irakli could not help but respond to.

Some of the others were interested in football; some were only there for the company and the drink. Irakli soon found himself involved in the kind of talk he'd missed from the weekends watching matches at Shota's place. He hadn't thought about how much he'd missed it - he caught up with Shota on the landline now and then, and they talked almost exclusively about football because he was always aware of Rusudan in the next room. But it wasn't the same as the chaotic, overlapping commentary he and all the others had offered from the couch as they ended the week together round at Shota's.

If anything, talking with Mate, Maia, Temo and the others was even better. Maia had a German father, and Mate revealed a precise, strongly opinionated knowledge of the European league, but they talked with the enthusiasm of fans, not with the schoolboy swagger of people who could not bear being contradicted.

By the time Temo offered to go to the bar, Irakli had finally finished his beer and was telling the little group about playing football on the pebbled beaches of the Black Sea. From there, once the match was over, they ended up discussing the merits of different clubs' kits, and though Irakli didn't have as much of an opinion on the fabric and colour combinations as Mate did, Mate's knowledge was enough for the whole table.

They waited for the end of Merab's shift in a restless flock outside the bar, smoking and laughing. Irakli hung back in the shadows of the awning, his eyes scanning the streets, thinking of what he'd learned about Merab's awful night out when he'd first left. He turned the collar of his jacket up and kept his laughter muted, and wondered if he'd be able to hide himself if he saw Luka passing on the street.

He thought maybe he should just leave, quit while the night was still good.

But then around the corner from the back of the building came Merab, his grin broad and slightly lop-sided, his chin up in greeting to Mate and the others. He gave a few of them great, swaying hugs, and Irakli watched thirstily from where he leaned against the wall.

Merab looked for him, and his smile somehow broadened when he found him. It made his eyes crinkle with delight, and what could Irakli do but return the smile - though he glanced down quickly, heat in his cheeks, a pressure in his chest that felt unstable.

Merab came over to stand beside him as he lit up his cigarette. "Are you coming to Nia's place with us?"

Irakli shrugged minutely. He was fighting his smile now - he knew Merab would get his way, knew he'd go along with whatever the night brought. "I'll come and check it out," he said equivocally.

It wasn't far to walk to the place they always went on weekends - Irakli was surprised by how central it was, how brash the red light pouring from the open door was.

Irakli joked nervously with the doorman, who looked him up and down with suspicion. Irakli couldn't deny it: he thought incessantly of what David had said again. _Not really like him_. Did the doorman notice something about him? Did he stand out among Merab's colourful friends?

But Mate seemed to be able to talk his way into anything, and he gripped Irakli's arm with determination. Merab hovered at his shoulder, his hand hanging casually close to Irakli's, an offer of support if it was needed. The others crowded around, murmuring agreement with Mate as he vouched for him. When the doorman relented, Mate breezed in as though this was the only result he had expected.

Merab stayed close and murmured that the bar often ran off a list - to keep trouble and bad faith actors out, to keep it safe for the city's burgeoning queer community. Mate was one of a handful of people whose word was trusted on the door, and Irakli shouldn't worry about it. The questions would stop if he came clubbing with them more often. Merab smirked as he explained this, and gestured for Irakli to go ahead.

Surrounded by the others, Irakli ducked through the door and into a club that felt more like a party in someone's living room. The red light drenched everything, from animal print drapes to sparkling decorations and the dancing bodies that were crammed together in the small space. It felt homely rather than seedy though, and kids in baggy t-shirts and office workers with rolled up sleeves mingled with minor social media celebrities and people in fetish gear.

Irakli looked for Merab's reaction to the place, but once he'd left his coat and bag in the cloakroom he'd been absorbed into the crowd. Irakli finally spotted him laughing as a tall woman hugged him round the neck and kissed his cheek. Merab rolled his eyes and brushed her off with a few shared dance moves: a ripple of shoulders and hips, a quick movement of his expressive hands.

Then he turned to look around him and Irakli wondered, momentarily, who he was looking for.

Merab saw him and beamed, beckoning Irakli to the dance floor.

By the time he got there, Mate was with Merab, and so were most of the others they had arrived with - having spread out to visit the cloakroom, the bar, various familiar faces on the dance floor, they now reconvened. Irakli let the current of the music carry him into the group and he started to loosen up and move, not dancing _with_ Merab, per se, no more than any of the others were, but it was like they'd been before in public: their moves responded to one other, their eyes met as they laughed, and their hands communicated through the music rather than competing with it.

It felt good to dance like this again. Irakli forgot his concerns about the bar - he was there to enjoy the music and the company, to remember how good a casual touch felt, a shared chorus to sing along to. Most of Merab's friends happily leaned on one another, rested hands on shoulders, slid arms around waists, and Irakli thought about the time before the vineyard when such gestures had come as naturally to him. He felt his cheeks grow warm, the blush invisible in the red light, as he looked at Merab and recalled how easy it had been to touch him before he had grown nervous about doing so, nervous about giving himself away.

"What?" Merab laughed at him over the music, his hips and body still flowing with the beat.

Irakli shook his head. "Nothing!"

Then the song swelled, and Mate bumped against his back, and Irakli accepted the arm that was thrown around him and slid his own arm round Mate's waist too. Mate's blond hair flicked against his face, but Irakli invited Merab beneath his other arm, and though the whole group came together in a bouncing, jostling huddle, Irakli felt Merab's familiar body against his own, smelled his sweat-damp hair as it caught against the stubble on his jaw, and held onto him tightly, more acutely aware of every point of touch between them than he was of the other dancers so close by.

Merab held him as tightly, and looked up, grinning, as the chorus ended.

Irakli avoided his expression nervously, but didn’t loosen his hold on him. Around them people were enjoying themselves, oblivious to the way Irakli was pushing against an invisible barrier, one that had been dutifully set up by everyone he'd grown up with, reinforced by himself, until Merab has slipped past it last summer. The fence had been breached; Irakli just needed the courage to tear it down.

He held on for a moment as Merab moved away at the end of the song, as their huddled group disintegrated. But Merab met his eyes as he continued to dance to the next track, and Irakli turned to him, letting himself be drawn in by Merab's movements. It was always easier to be brave to music, he found. To stop listening to the shame and fear ingrained in his head and to let his body do as it wished.

He didn't move like Merab did - no one else did that - and his body suited the rigidity of traditional dance better - but he didn't need to do anything other than enjoy the beat.

He grabbed one of Merab's hands impulsively as it swept through the hot, red air. Irakli felt the strength of the hold that was returned. He didn't know how it happened, but he found he'd laced his fingers with Merab's, and the intimacy of the gesture took him by surprise. He danced another step closer to Merab, knowing that his expression was some silly, exaggerated mask of playfulness because it was the only way he could avoid staring dumbly at the joy on Merab's face.

He'd have to let go soon - or make a move.

Merab shimmied towards him, lowering his head, looking up at Irakli with a dangerous challenge in his eyes. The hand that Irakli did not hold finished a gesture inspired by the music and - fingertips first, careful at first - sought a place to settle on Irakli's hip.

Now Merab was dancing against him and they might as well have been back in his room, sharing headphones in the dark.

At last, Irakli found he didn't need to tear anything down: he found he had cleared that internal barrier without a thought. He cupped the back of Merab's head, his fingers finding their way into the familiar, soft tangle of hair, and kissed Merab as though they were the only ones in the room.

It was a public admission, of sorts, but Irakli didn't let himself think of that. All that mattered was Merab's expression, so close to his own face, hopeful and surprised and suffused with delight. Irakli held onto him, moving with him, forehead to forehead, his smile a joke but his eyes sincere. Merab's smile said he understood the joke, and his own hands – one on Irakli's hip, the other held in Irakli’s, their fingers interlaced - held on tightly too.

At last, Irakli felt freed by this closeness. They could focus exclusively on each other, moving together and apart as it suited them and the music.

One moment he touched Merab’s hips as they swayed together, then he held his palm to Merab’s chest as they danced with a little more distance between them. When the music brought them together again, Irakli bowed his forehead to Merab's as Merab looked up at him. He kissed him over and over when he wanted to, when the smile on his lips became irresistible, or when Merab had danced away from him teasingly - Irakli always drew him back, missing the taste of him and the feeling of their bodies touching with the rhythm of the music.

He could still feel the nerves in his entire body, the prickling of his shoulders when he remembered the whole club might have been watching, the taut sinews locking his legs and sometimes making it hard to dance. But by the end of the night he'd forgotten such things: he and Merab lined up at the bar to do shots with Mate and the others. He held a hand to the beautiful hollow of Merab's back like he used to do when Zinaida was within reach; he touched glasses with Merab's friends and with the bar staff; he proved his knowledge of song lyrics as they all clustered together again on the dance floor for the final records of the night. He left the club to the shock of a cold night, smoking to preserve warmth, meeting Merab's eyes to preserve warmth, and took his boyfriend home with him, the two of them laughing through the silent cemetery.

It wasn't hard to explain the burgeoning routine to Rusudan as Merab dashed from the apartment on weekend mornings, Irakli's t-shirt hidden beneath his hoodie, unmatched socks hidden in his shoes. Rusudan knew nothing of the kaleidoscope of clothes Irakli took down to the basement to wash - the things he didn't remember swapping, the underwear with 'D. Lominadze' written in it as often as 'M. Lominadze'. She was told that Merab and Irakli worked together in a bar, and that by the time Merab's shift finished, he would have had to get a very expensive taxi home. Rusudan appreciated his desire to be thrifty, and she praised her grandson's generous kindness towards his friend. She loved to chide Merab when he didn't stay for breakfast, and to chide Irakli for not providing an adequate breakfast that might persuade him to be late to his shift at Eliava. But mostly she enjoyed the happiness that filled the apartment when the two of them sat opposite her, their thighs touching beneath the table, their movements increasingly wordless as they anticipated what the other would want or reach for. She liked that Merab grew familiar enough to call her granny and kiss her on the cheek as he left, and she liked to listen to Irakli hum and sing as he went about the flat tidying up.

Vano stayed in hospital - the bar job meant that Irakli could afford it. Elizabeth accepted this with an awed quiescence, as though she had never truly believed he would be able to find the money to make it happen. The more she and Irakli talked, the less she mentioned the approbation of her friends.

Indeed, she barely ventured onto the topic of Irakli's life much at all - instead she spoke haltingly of grocery shopping, church-going, sitting by Vano's bedside in the private ward.

Irakli was glad, at last, to no longer feature in these daily chores, not to be blamed for all that had gone wrong in his mother's day.

The nurse who Elizabeth knew best was no longer 'the girl who is friends with the sister of Zinaida' but rather 'Lali'. She didn't dangle references to Zinaida's family in the way she used to, and she was more careful about discussing her meetings at church - she knew how it shut down the conversation between them, and preferred to keep talking with her son.

Elizabeth became eloquent in her joy when 'that kind young Laz boy who you used to go to dance classes with' - Shota - brought the TV they had had to pawn back to the apartment. Irakli didn't bother telling his mother that he'd planned its return with Shota. Her gratitude warmed his chest when he heard it in her voice, and he began, little by little, to hope that he might sit by his father's bedside once more before he died. He didn't suggest it yet - he feared a revival of Elizabeth's demands to leave everything in Tbilisi behind, as though all her objections would rise to the surface again if he offered to visit.

But he spoke to Shota enough to know that Batumi had found other things to gossip about. Even Viktor and Ivan grumbled more about how well Irakli's fantasy football team was doing than who he fancied.

Irakli hadn't even looked at the team since he'd arrived back in the capital. On Merab's laptop, he logged in and made the first changes to his team he'd made in months. He let Merab's suggestions influence him, though Merab laughingly admitted he was choosing based on the sound of a name or how much he dreamed of visiting the city they played for. But he leaned against Irakli's body as they stretched out together in Irakli's bed, and Irakli would have done whatever he'd asked. The passive dominance of his team in Shota's league might have ended, but participating was now more fun than it had ever been.

The weekends became a familiar rush of activities to look forward to. Between them, he and Merab charmed the patrons of the bar they worked in - cocktail-making performances, with bottles tossed back and forth, shakers danced with, glasses caught behind backs, brought in tips and cheers. But even better than that, they allowed Irakli and Merab to spend their shifts in close contact, playing to a crowd and to each other in the way that both thrived on.

No one challenged Irakli on the door of Nia's club anymore, and once every few weeks they went on to the vast, repurposed swimming pool where the city's biggest gay night pulsed through cracked tiles and concrete pillars. You could do anything, be anything, get anything at Bassiani. They would dance beneath strobe lights and tooth-rattling beats until it was light outside. Then they would squeeze themselves and whoever else wanted to join them into taxis and return to the central apartment Mate shared with some friends, the journalist Ana and her girlfriend Salome, who had inherited the place from an uncle. It was an unofficial safe-house where they didn't need to answer to prying, prurient landlords. There was always someone crashing on the sofa or sleeping on a mattress in the living room. At least one of Mate's flatmates would always be in - you could turn up at any time of day or night and find a friendly face, a cup of tea, a shot of vodka, a cigarette or two.

At night, it became a kind of lounge extension of the clubs - anything you could get in Bassiani you could get from someone at Mate's house parties. People played music - there always seemed to be a guitar or a panduri or a drum or a keyboard in the living room - the TV competed noisily, playing late night sports coverage or American comedies and drag runway shows. More often than not, Irakli woke up on Sunday morning tangled in some possessive way against Merab's body, on the couch or on the floor, leaning heavily on Merab's shoulder or legs, with Merab's coat wrapped over him like a make-shift duvet. There was always coffee, and fresh bagels from a shop nearby.  
Merab, who appeared to barely need sleep, would laugh at the creases his jeans or hoodie had left on Irakli's face and smooth over them with his thumb and his lips. He'd down a cold coffee and take his coat back from Irakli's shoulders and leave for a day at Eliava - while Irakli remained among the wreckage of the party, smoking with the rest of the people who had stayed through the night: the drag acts, skate kids, journalists, students, activists and artists.

They came from all over the country - and beyond. Irakli wasn't the only Adjarian there, and he learned from a trans woman who worked with an NGO that Batumi had its own, hidden queer spaces. Cautiously, he scrolled down through his phone to the anonymous message of support he'd received, and mentioned what he'd been told, in case it was of use.

He didn't look for a reply, but he wondered whether it would have helped him when he'd thought he'd be stuck in Batumi forever, hiding himself and denying himself. He didn't think he'd have done anything with the information for fear of being noticed, and the thought made him look up and blink at the scene he was now a part of: he had become accustomed to the variety around him, to the language of pride and assertion that filled the room.

If he’d thought at first that he’d have to be a certain way to be accepted there, then he’d soon given up the misconception. It had been strange, remembering what he’d been like before that miserable few months in Batumi – how, before he’d worked to smother his secrets, he’d enjoyed meeting people, socialising, never once having to pause and worry about the ramifications of the words he spoke or the stories he told. He might not have been quite so cavalier now – he seemed to learn about new ways of existing through each person he met at Mate’s parties – but he could breathe around these people; he could enjoy their company and be confident that they, generally, enjoyed his, too.

Though he revelled in the ever-changing crowds and the fun and bustle of Mate’s parties, as he settled to sleep against Merab’s body he often found himself longing for more of the lazy weekends they’d shared alone at the start of the year. When, instead of staying out, Merab came back to his place, they tried to recreate the feeling of those days at night, watching films in the dark with Merab's laptop nearly muted, losing track of the plot when their kisses overwrote scenes of exposition. As with any first flush of attraction, Irakli wanted only to touch him at all times, to bring him near and to chart every freckle on his cheeks and every shade in his hair. The cool light from the laptop screen made Irakli marvel all over again at the structure of his features and the warmth in his limbs. There was nothing better than making Merab smile, however he achieved it.

His dance also improved with his mood - he practised early at the studio and sometimes he'd text Ninutsa and she'd join him. Aleko noticed the improvement in discipline and attitude, and he told Irakli - with only some hesitation - that he was to be the unofficial reserve should the main ensemble need an extra dancer for the spring tour. Irakli took the news with only a degree of seriousness - he didn't imagine the main ensemble would really need him, and it seemed a remote and distant future from the world he had carved out for himself among Merab's friends.

The future appeared as foreign as it had ever done, although now at least Irakli had discovered a present that was worth maintaining, that he dreamed of holding onto through whatever else was in store. The only thing he'd have changed was the rigidity of the shifts Merab worked for his father. But he never presumed to say such a thing, like he never dared ask Elizabeth whether he might visit his own father's bedside - there was a delicate balance in the unchanging routine, and it was better to avoid ambitious alterations to it than to risk losing the pleasant life he'd found himself with. If Merab was happy, he was happy, and Irakli was content to leave it at that, and enjoy the break he felt he'd been handed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I know nothing about football, please forgive me!  
> Also, I just want to emphasise that I am making things up about the character Mate from the film and not speculating about the person called Mate/Matt who plays him and is currently featured in [this lovely little short film](https://vimeo.com/406722906) about drag in Tbilisi.  
> Sorry also if this chapter is a bit repetitive, but now Irakli's finally got to this stage I hope things can move on into new dimensions of their relationship :)


	61. Chapter 61

There was a lot that Merab was eager to learn about Irakli when they had the time together. One of his favourite discoveries was the extent to which the skin on his belly was ticklish: Merab could pin him to dishevelled bedcovers, his fingers scampering over the tight dark curls of hair between Irakli's bellybutton and his waistband, and Irakli would be helpless with the effort to control his laughter. It wasn't the smile he wore on the floor of the clubs - a playful, performative smirk - but something impossible, irrepressible, and Merab wanted to remember every detail of it and recreate it at leisure, in any way that he could.

He remembered his private joy the first time Irakli had fallen asleep against him on the bus - now, at Mate's parties, Irakli settled deliberately with his head in Merab's lap or lolling against Merab's shoulder. Merab whiled away the early hours of the mornings with his fingers playing in the soft hair at Irakli's temple. He was custodian of Irakli's earring so it didn't get lost or caught on Merab's clothes - he was hyper-aware of it inside his wallet, a responsibility he took on with fierce dedication. He marvelled, every time, at the easy way Irakli's face relaxed when he slept, and felt as though it expressed a trust in him that made his heart swell.

It didn't take long for it to occur to Merab that, suddenly, and beyond all hope, he had ended up with - almost - all that he'd wanted. This was a dizzying, disorienting revelation as he adjusted his normal week around the person he had dreamed of more than any other. Merab found that he had to fit in extra emotions, moments that felt too great, too significant for the way they blindsided him on a dance floor at 2am, or bumped hips with him behind the bar as he served beer to some regulars. He had never worried about growing bored with Irakli, but the opposite seemed to happen week on week: as Irakli's confidence around him grew, as Merab got to know him in public and in private, he let himself become more fascinated than ever, felt himself falling in love even harder than before. And the realisation made him uneasy, certain that a disappointment and a bad ending were inevitably around the corner.

There was nothing about Irakli's manner to make him worry - Merab felt like he'd never get used to his quiet attentiveness. Irakli would seem as carefree and oblivious as ever as they worked together and danced together, and then he would nudge Merab aside as they walked back to his apartment, shivering through the cemetery. In the shadow of looming stone monuments, Irakli would clasp Merab's hands between his own and, with a quick glance around, he would raise Merab's cold fingers to his mouth and mourn the cracked skin his work at Eliava had caused, his lips soft and penitent and warm on Merab's knuckles. He didn't ask about the work he did, he just noticed its effect, and that was enough to awe Merab with gratitude.

It was really only in Irakli's arms that sleep seemed to be effective - or even that desirable. The old mattress on Irakli's bed wasn't much more comfortable than the couch cushions Merab slept on at Ioseb's, but it was improved immeasurably by the feeling of Irakli's limbs wrapped around his body, Irakli's face nuzzling against the nape of his neck. It was a haven at the end of the week, and from the fortress of Irakli's hold, Merab was able to keep his worries about what would come next at bay.

He missed the spring deadline for applying to the academy, and he told no one. There was a summer deadline too, and he half-heartedly persuaded himself that his routine would be better for the extra practice.

The routine that was little more than a few fragmentary intentions at the moment.

Merab struggled to work out what it was for: he had danced to meet the expectations of traditionalists, and then, once, he had danced to explain all of his frustrations and passions to an audience that would never understand. Now, he watched videos of other artists online with the same obsessive hunger he always had, but he tried to second-guess what it was the academy wanted, and found himself paralysed by indecision. It felt like a last chance, like if he failed in this goal he'd never get the opportunity again. He had put so much of himself into the audition for the main ensemble, and he had known that it would not get him a place - but the idea of doing so again and failing again, when he wanted what was on offer at the dance academy so badly, left him preemptively wounded.

He didn't tell Irakli about it. Things seemed to have fallen into place for him so easily at the ensemble, and Merab was ashamed of the jealous twist he felt in his guts when he thought about that.

Irakli mentioned that he was a reserve choice for the main ensemble, and he acted like it was a token gesture, nothing more than an unnecessary insurance - something that was just funny because of how irked Aleko must have been to admit that he needed Irakli.

Merab congratulated him, and meant it, but also wished Irakli hadn't told him.

The studio had been a part of his life for so long; dancing for the national had been the path that all his ambitions had travelled until last year - he'd never struggled to motivate himself before, and he was still proud of what he had achieved. Why, then, could he not take the next step towards enrolling at the academy? He could always just submit the dance he'd done for his audition, couldn't he? Except Merab tried to remember the spirit that had come over him when he'd heard Aleko's weary tones: "You've made your point, Merab..."

He'd certainly gone on to do so. But he wasn't sure he could do it again with such eloquence if he was simply trying to recreate a spontaneous outpouring of feeling. He needed new inspiration, and he wasn't getting it from Ali's play or Eliava's grey mud or the things he wouldn't let himself hope for from Irakli. He'd learned to keep a part of himself reserved, to protect himself from the kind of pain he'd discovered last year - but now he wasn't certain how to access that part again, and he looked at the person he had been at the audition almost as someone else entirely.

If only he'd never mentioned what he was thinking of to Mary, back when it had seemed the simplest thing in the world to step out of the national ensemble and straight into the academy. Before he'd let his days and nights fill up with work and distractions, a busy life that gave him a quick, reassuring rush of pleasure - cash in his pocket, a smile on the dance floor, the laughter of his friends - a busy life that squeezed the time for serious practice to its edges. He did practice still, but he might have carried on refining the ideas in his head in peace if he had never mentioned it to Mary, revising his moves on the rare nights when he had the energy and Ioseb's flat to himself. Instead, on top of his father's questions about college courses, it seemed he was to be subjected to a weekly inquisition by Mary.

"Why don't you use the routine we're doing for the play?"

He rolled his eyes and stabbed at the ice in his drink with the straw. "Most of it's a duet. I'd still have to change so much..."

Mary sighed. "Well you have to do _something_. I can film you improvising whenever you want. Do what you did in the audition and just dance. We can book the rehearsal space as many times as you need."

"Mm," Merab said by way of thanks, still scowling at the slushy mess in the bottom of his glass. He tried to imagine the moves he would follow or the story he would tell with his body if he tried to _just dance_ now. The vision rapidly faltered in tangles of over-thinking, second-guessing, measuring what he thought he'd be able to do well now against the moves he still wanted to be able to do better.

He would have remained lost in the details, but Mary's next question made him look up sharply.

"Weren't you going to invite Irakli along to rehearsals? Didn't he want to come?"

"Why wouldn't he want to come?" Merab replied defensively.

Mary blinked. "What? Haven't you asked him?"

He pulled a frustrated expression. "He knows when I'm here, he's never asked to come along."

It was Mary's turn to sigh wearily. "Merab... What's wrong? I thought you were proud of our routine?"

"Yeah," he replied, noncommittal.

Mary chipped away with her questions until he was cornered into admitting it: Irakli danced better with fewer years' experience in an ensemble than Merab had had. He had the natural form that the teachers would praise a thousand times over rather than acknowledge the effort of one who struggled to stay serious and rigid. He wasn't arrogant about it, but he was a potential critic, and Merab was sick of finding out he'd been wasting his time doing things wrong. Things were otherwise so good with Irakli, why would he want to rock the boat, to risk resenting him any more for what he couldn't help?

At the partial explanation he gave - delivered through gritted teeth as he frowned at the table, one arm crossed in front of him, the other gesturing abruptly - Mary shook her head.

"But that's the folk-dance style. We're not trying to do that anymore! You can do so much more, Merab. And I don't think Irakli will judge you like Aleko or Beso."

A memory drifted by, of Irakli's fearless, cheeky reply to one of Aleko's pronouncements, and Merab's lips betrayed his sullen demeanour with a hint of a smile. "I don't know..."

Mary tutted. "I do. I remember the kintouri you two did at Sopo's birthday. He'll be happy to watch you dance to anything."

He looked more closely at her expression and saw the colour in her cheeks, though she gazed down at her own drink and raised her brows nonchalantly. Merab remembered how furious Irakli used to make her, and he let his smile break over his features, gratitude for his oldest friend warming him. He reached over the table and squeezed her hand.

"You're so wise, Mary," he teased her.

She scoffed, but it cleared the flush of embarrassment from her cheeks. In her free hand she brandished her phone and met Merab's eyes steadily. "So, will you invite him, or will I?"

"What?" He took his hand back and tried to laugh. "He won't come today; it's too far..."

Mary's expression was a mask of cool nonchalance. "It won't be a problem; we'll do the dance at the end of the rehearsal. That gives him time to get the bus."

Why did it worry him, the idea of performing for Irakli? What was it that made his chest tighten and his hands disappear inside the wide sleeves of his hoodie, fists clenched protectively? It made him almost as jittery and sick as the thought of applying for the academy and facing rejection.

"I'll ask him next week," he said, but Mary was already raising her phone before her face.

Belatedly, Merab made a move to snatch it as she started typing, but Mary sat back, out of reach, and raised a scathing eyebrow at him. " _Hey Irakli, Merab's out of credit, but he thought you might like to come to our rehearsal tonight. It's in the Paradjanov room on campus, we're there until 9pm. See you later! Mary._ "

He stared at her, and saw the stubbornness he'd known since they were children. "I'm going to get you back for that."

A moment of trepidation flashed over her expression, but she steeled her jaw. "I don't know what you think you could do."

Her phone pinged, and Merab's plans for revenge were flung aside by the need to know what the reply was.

Mary took a sip of her drink and pouted, flicking her screen on without meeting Merab's eyes or changing her expression.

"Mary..."

She couldn't hold the poker face, and her mouth crept up into a smirk. " _Sure - on my way_."

"Ohh, what have you done..." Merab threw his head back. He was smiling though. He felt like he was floating. He screwed his eyes shut and rubbed his face and wondered what would happen if he just forgot every move - his mind had gone blank, empty of everything except the anticipation of seeing Irakli.

Training would take over when he danced. It always did. In the meantime, he _would_ think of how to repay Mary for her interference.


	62. Chapter 62

Merab chewed his lip and glared at Mary from the other side of the stage.

She shrugged archly and took her pose as the music started up.

Merab had needled her all evening, full of pissy comments and pointed looks. Mary endured it with grace and her own sharp replies - he could act annoyed about the text she'd sent Irakli all he wanted, but she knew he was brimming with excitement now that they were on stage.

A handful of seats had been pulled into an uneven line just down from the stage, and the floor around them was scattered with bags, coats, snacks, notepads and well-used copies of the play. The members of the main cast who had stayed for the dance rehearsal lounged in them, enjoying a break now that their part of the meeting was over. Crew members and friends checked their phones and murmured quietly under the cover of the music coming from the CD player. At the end of the row sat Ali and Irakli, who also continued their conversation, their heads bowed together.

A glance at them made Mary smirk - their poses were so similar, leaning back in their chairs, legs sprawled, arms folded.

Both of them looked up quickly though, as she and Merab began to move.

Now, all Mary had to do was enjoy herself - they could make their dance as competitive, as flirtatious, as expressive as they wanted it to be. They'd talked about taking every piece of advice Aleko had ever given them and doing the opposite - they'd spent some rehearsals doing just that and laughing helplessly at the topsy-turvy world they'd created. But they'd found a style that suited them both, somewhere between formality and pleasure.

Mary spun circles around Merab and the movements of his arms. Every time she faced the room, she snatched a glance at Ali and Irakli.

Ali watched with the smile that Mary loved to see: kind and appreciative and interested. Taking in all that was new and filing it away into that sharp mind of his.

Next to him, Irakli had not changed his pose: he still sat splay-legged, his arms folded tight over his chest. Mary didn't worry about looking at his face when she had the chance because his eyes were never on her - his expression wasn't quite the mask he seemed to think it was. He sat very still but she saw his dark gaze tracking Merab's movements, saw the colour at his neck and the way he pressed his mouth together and breathed carefully through his nose.

He laughed in surprise at some of their more playful choreography, and finally released an arm to tap Ali with the back of his knuckles and lean over to mutter something about the dances they were referencing. He crossed his legs and continued to smile as he watched the rest of the routine.

Ali flicked through the script between each segment and ran over the context for their dances, commenting on what he wanted to see from each scene change.

As they worked through them, Mary saw that Merab was well aware of how he was being watched. His shoulders loosened and his smile turned mischievous, the elegance of his gestures become more exaggerated. Mary couldn't help but return his grin, and some of the people watching them began to clap along to the music - she suspected that Irakli had instigated it.

At the end, they offered awkward bows to their applauding friends. Mary smirked at Merab, proud that her efforts has been rewarded: Irakli stamped a foot on the floor and offered a wolf-whistle that startled and impressed some of the others into copying him.

As Merab stepped down from the stage, Mary trotted behind him and bent to say, "I told you he'd like it..."

He stopped abruptly so that she ran into him, her hands braced on his elbows. "I'm still going to get you back," he murmured over his shoulder, but Mary saw the proud sparkle in his grin.

She followed him closely to where they'd stashed water bottles and towels at the edge of the room. "So you have nothing to worry about, right? Have you told him about the academy? I bet he'd help you think of something..."

Merab took a swig from his bottle and cast a glance over to where Irakli was standing with Ali, the two of them speaking animatedly about something. He shook his head. "No. It's fine; I have ideas."

Mary patted her skin with a towel, eyeing him suspiciously. "You can't still be worried about what he'll say..." She took a pocket mirror out to check how flushed she was, to tidy her eyeliner and hair and to confirm over her shoulder that Irakli and Ali were still chatting.

Now, Irakli seemed to be demonstrating some moves to Ali, who was hesitantly copying his hand gestures.

Merab was watching them, gnawing on a fingernail, his eyes large and troubled. "Mm," he said - Mary saw he hadn't been listening.

She let out an impatient breath and resolved to forget about it - it wasn't her responsibility. She didn't need to worry about it. Merab could decide for himself how much the academy meant to him - or he could carry on working for his father at Eliava. Mary would be his friend either way. But she wouldn't keep trying to arrange his life for him. The end of his relationship with Thomas had reminded her that what she thought was good for Merab was not always in line with what he wanted.

Picking up her water bottle and towel, she meant to stride past Ali and Irakli with a serene smile on her way to the changing rooms, but as she approached them, Irakli broke off and reached for her presumptively.

"Oh! Hey, Mary, Ali was asking about the moves you were basing that last dance on. I'm not very good at explaining; I've never danced the girl's part..." he said in that drawling, half-mocking way he had. His hand wrapped around her forearm and he drew her to stand in front of Ali.

Mary looked up at him with a pinched expression - if he'd actually colluded with Merab, she would have assumed it was the intended vengeance for her interference earlier. But Irakli was unaware of all that - he was just telling Ali about the Adjaruli and Ali was following what he said as he avoided technical terms and described the movements. That aside, Mary saw the echo of Merab's passion in the way he talked, and Irakli caught her looking strangely at him.

"Sorry, right, I'll get out of your way so you can show Ali..." He touched her shoulder familiarly and stepped back.

Before Mary could object or question him, he'd slipped off - in search of Merab, she guessed - and left her facing Ali's bemused expression.

Mary smoothed her hair again and crossed her arms uncomfortably. She asked him what he wanted to know about the dance.

Ali laughed nervously and said he'd simply been curious about their inspiration - he thought the dance was quite different from the Azeri dances he'd seen, more playful, more equal between the partners.

Mary relaxed as she talked to him, caught up in the encouraging way he prompted her for more information, in the way he nodded to confirm he had understood her, and in the careful, thoughtful way he responded with examples of the Azeri dances he knew.

Around them, the rest of the cast filtered out, and eventually Mary spotted Merab and Irakli slinking along the far wall like shadows, a self-conscious distance between them as they headed for the exit.

Mary didn't catch what Ali was saying and had to blink and ask him to repeat it.

He saw what had got her attention only as Merab left the room with a wave and he laughed nervously. "I asked you if you're ready for the mid-terms."

She narrowly stopped herself from swearing and covered her mouth with her fingers. "They're this week?"

Ali laughed again, but Mary thought he now sounded nervous on her behalf. "They start next week. You do the same statistics module as the medics though, don't you?"

Mary grimaced and nodded.

"If you - if you want, a group of us meet to revise in the canteen on Tuesday lunchtimes. You could come and join us..."

He was actually blushing above his beard, and Mary stared, momentarily gobsmacked.

Panicked by her silence, Ali's cheeks turned a deeper red and his eyes widened. "It's with the other medical students - there are women there too - we just quiz each other, try and help each other understand things that aren’t making sense, you know?"

"Oh, yeah, no, of course, I understand!" Mary said quickly, feeling the colour rising in her own skin. "Thanks, that's kind." She kept nodding longer than probably looked sane before she could make herself stop.

Ali smiled and Mary was dazzled by the soft crinkles around his eyes and his immaculate white teeth. "Cool, I'll uh, I'll tidy things up here and lock the building," Ali said.

Mary thought about offering to help, but she wasn't sure what would happen if she blushed any harder, so she just nodded and swallowed. "Yeah, I'll see you on Tuesday!"

She gathered her things from the changing room and hurried for the exit.

Outside, she pulled herself up sharply at the sound of familiar voices chatting nearby. Mary stopped in the doorway and lit a cigarette, glancing surreptitiously in the direction of two figures standing a little away from the building.

They were talking and laughing. Merab's hands were in his pockets but his weight fell forward in his hips so he seemed to curve towards Irakli. He was grinning, his chin up, eyes fixed on Irakli's expression.

Irakli's hands were out of his pockets, gesturing in way that acknowledged the idea of restraint, but they were open and stirred the night air as he enthused about something. He bit his lip and allowed himself one brief touch: his fingers caught on the sleeve of Merab's coat and then he stepped back.

Mary watched, somewhat astonished, as Merab looked down and gave a demure shake of his head. He drew the gloves she had given him months ago from his pockets and pulled them on, and it made Irakli nod in satisfaction.

Both wavered for a moment, and then their awkward, friendly calls of “goodnight!” echoed around the campus.

So Irakli was capable of persuading Merab to wear his gloves, to take a little better care of himself? Mary blinked again at the ash gathering at the tip of her cigarette and shook her head at the darkness in amazement.

Irakli pretended he'd only just noticed her there and sauntered over. Merab had hurried away in search of his bus, but Irakli never seemed to be in a rush. He took a cigarette of his own out and asked Mary for a light, which she provided wordlessly.

She confirmed that she was heading in the same direction as him for a little way - usually she'd get a taxi, but he was happy to walk with her, and Mary was curious. She didn't know anyone else who could sway between a projection of maturity and a childish, flippant nihilism as rapidly as Irakli. She wanted to figure him out, to get a better idea of what it was Merab saw in him.

And he seemed talkative that evening.

"Thanks for the text." He eyed her knowingly. "That was a lot of fun."

Mary feigned indifference. "Oh, I know what it means to Merab, that's all."

"Mm."

They smoked in silence for a few paces.

"It's...good to see the injury doesn't affect him," Irakli said haltingly. He looked up at her guiltily, as though he'd been trying hard to keep his eyes on his feet.

Surprised to hear him mention it, Mary took a sharper drag on her cigarette than she'd intended and stifled a cough. She shrugged.

Irakli sighed and turned his face towards the gutter in the road's edge. "It just makes me mad when I think about it," he said.

His voice was quiet and hot with emotions that caught Mary off guard.

"All those years, and no one corrected it? No one thought it was worth teaching him the landing properly?"

She frowned, uncertain how to respond. "Aleko tried to teach him, I think..."

"Nah," Irakli scoffed, the word full of scorn. "He couldn't have asked for a better student than Merab - if he'd taught it properly." He seemed to remember himself, and glanced at Mary apologetically. "Look, I...I guess I feel bad about that still. That's all."

Mary pressed her lips together. She'd never imagined she'd have to reassure Irakli that he was worthy of Merab, not after months of raging at him because she believed he wasn't. "Why? You tried to tell him how to do it. And he never blamed you."

He nodded at the floor, trying to appear equanimous. "Ah, yeah, well, maybe I'm saying it would be easier if he did. I mean. I should have said something sooner, about leaving..."

Was he looking for forgiveness from her? Mary studied him as they walked, but Irakli was focused on his cigarette, apparently unconcerned by her response.

"You should have seen the dance he did for the audition," she said at last.

Irakli looked at her fully then, his eyes bright with interest, his smile suddenly boyish and hopeful. "You saw it? The audition?"

There was unabashed envy in Irakli's tone.

Mary grinned ahead and felt her skin grow warm with pride. "Yep! He was incredible..."

She hadn't had anyone new to tell the story to for months, and Mary quickly let herself grow enthusiastic, her voice breathless and her hands emphasising her words as they walked. Irakli watched and listened in hungry silence, making the occasional wondering interjection.

"I wish I'd seen it."

Mary almost told him, then, about Merab's plans to apply to the academy. She had to bite her lip and remind herself that it would be a step too far - whatever was holding Merab back he still needed to work through himself. So she made herself smile and shrug and say vaguely, "There'll be other auditions, hopefully."

He nodded, looking away from her again, though as they passed beneath the streetlights, Mary saw the colour high on the cheek that was turned to her.

When they got to her place, Mary remembered how she had felt as she and Sopo sat smoking beneath the tree at the centre of the courtyard last summer - Sopo gossiping about poor Zaza, and Mary processing what she thought she'd learned over her birthday weekend. She had been so worried for Merab, she had wanted to think Irakli was leading him astray, to believe this bad influence was just getting in the way of her and the boy she always thought she'd marry. He'd come crashing into their lives, all swagger and pierced ear and talent combined with carelessness, and he'd upended everything Mary had once been certain of.

Now, Mary turned to this bad influence and threw her arms around him.

Irakli laughed awkwardly, surprised by the gesture, and hugged Mary back.

He did give good hugs, she conceded, her face pressed into his cold jacket, her shoulders encircled by a strong hold that once again lifted her onto her toes. He smelled of aftershave and cigarette smoke and, just beneath that, a little of clothes that had taken too long to dry in a damp basement.

It reminded Mary of the smell of winter up at her dad's place: old buildings, a constant stream of family members smoking and eating and laughing and drinking, coats drying on furniture and mist in the vineyards. Things that were comforting and complex and real. It seemed to undermine the last of her suspicions that here was someone feckless, someone who'd only be around for as long as suited him.

"Night, Mary." Irakli gave her a small wave as he turned and headed into one of the dark streets off the little court.

She shivered beneath the tree, pacing in the dappled street light. She'd have to go in soon - she sensed her mother at the window, waiting to quiz her about where she'd been, who she'd been with, what she'd been doing. But first she took her phone out and texted Merab.

_I really think you should tell him about the academy_.

Even before she could slip the phone back in her pocket it buzzed in her hand. Mary picked up with a tut. "Merab?"

"What did you say; did you tell him?"

"No! I just said you should tell him - why would I say that if I'd already done it?"

He sighed. The line was crackly and sounded distant; he must still have been on the bus.

"Do you want me to apologise?" Mary continued impatiently.

He groaned and it sounded like he was rubbing his face with his hand. "No, Mary - what - "

"Because I will, ok?"

" - Mary, you have nothing to apologise for - "

"No, I really thought he was just messing around before. But I was wrong and I don't think you should keep him out like you're doing now." She spoke it in a rush and then pressed her knuckles to her lips, still pacing beneath the tree to keep warm. When she glanced up she saw her mother's silhouette at the kitchen window and she grimaced and turned to walk in the other direction.

Merab was silent for a while, and she listened to the noise of the bus engine and the city's interference.

"I'm not keeping him out," he said eventually. He sounded tired, his voice quiet and empty of his usual conviction.

She didn't have the heart to argue the point with him now, with one of them stuck beneath a parental glare and the other probably hunched defensively against the bus window.

"Fine," she said, working to make her voice sound more gentle. "I'm just saying it seems good with him, ok? I'm happy for you."

"Thanks, Mary," he murmured.

"Goodnight, Merab."

"Goodnight."

With a rueful shudder, Mary turned to the building where she lived. She wished she could be as confident about her own love life as she'd become about Merab's.

Before she'd even finished unbuttoning her coat, her mother had begun her litany of accusations from the kitchen.

Oh, she'd been pleased when Mary had left the ensemble - but she shouldn't have done it like that. She'd been pleased to know that the second son of a washed-up pair of dancers would never marry her daughter - but she wanted to know why this boy thought himself too good for the girl he'd strung along for years. She wanted to know how Mary thought she'd find anyone better by going to college, and at her age!

"You'll end up a spinster, teaching orphans how to read and sponging off your mother until I die and you can take the flat!"

Mary fantasised about the look on her mother's face if she could one day tell her of the handsome medical student she was seeing, only then to reveal that he was not even Georgian. Maybe her mother would be so astonished she'd never speak to Mary again. Maybe she'd kick Mary out and she'd move to Baku with Ali. Mary ran through the Azeri she knew and let her mother's noise wash over her.

"I have to shower and revise for mid-terms, Mum," she interrupted coolly, heading straight for her room and slamming the door.


	63. Chapter 63

In the early hours of the weekend, amidst the bustle and familiarity of Mate, Salome and Ana's apartment, Merab still couldn't see how to tell Irakli about the academy. He'd been trying to figure it out all week, but he'd not even come close to raising the subject. Not when Irakli texted him about the routines he'd seen Merab and Mary rehearse, not when they worked together or danced together behind the bar or at Nia's, and not last night, when Irakli had kissed every inch of muscle on Merab's stomach, his teeth scraping over contours that tensed with pleasure wherever his mouth roved.

It wasn't really that important, Merab told himself as he knocked back the last of his drink and went to join the group of people dancing in the corner of the living room.

What did he expect Irakli to say or do, anyway? Merab sang along with the music and threw his arm over Mate's shoulders. They leaned their heads together and hollered the chorus and Merab pushed the nagging responsibility further away.

Mary was making too much of a thing out of it. She was right in one way - he and Irakli were good. Why bother introducing more uncertainty into it, though? Who knew what their lives would be like by the time Merab _had_ to submit his application? Irakli's father might have died or he might be touring with the ensemble or - who knew? Why add any extra what ifs? What if Merab didn't get in? What if he told Irakli about it and Irakli was indifferent? Or tried to advise Merab against it?

As the song ended and Merab and Mate punched the air, he saw Irakli watching him with a grin, his cheeks bright from the heat in the room and the night's exertions. He couldn't wink properly, and it was an endless source of amusement to Merab: instead, Irakli had to blink significantly, like he was doing just now as he also pursed his lips a little. Merab laughed and raised his cheek to the invisible kiss.

They danced together among friends, hands finding familiar holds - hips, waist, shoulders - and when he was drawn in close, Merab smiled easily against the skin of Irakli's throat. He laughed again when they danced a few steps apart and Irakli made up movements with his hands to narrate the song, his expression earnest and exaggerated.

Afterwards, they spied free space on one of the sofas and collapsed into it with drinks in their hands, Merab tucked beneath Irakli's arm, leaning into him, his face warm - actually, really warm from the crowded room and the dancing. Merab complained about the temperature, pressing his burning forehead to Irakli's jaw.

Irakli responded with a sound of pity and shifted a little under Merab's weight so he could reach around with his cold beer bottle and hold it to Merab's face.

It made Merab's heart swell. When he was with Irakli, he realised he didn't feel quite like he'd done last year - this wasn't a pure flush of optimism, or a rush of excitement consisting of things that only _might be_. It wasn't a precarious ride on a wave of emotion, sweeping him up with the promise sparked by a few nights together. There was familiarity in the rush he felt around Irakli now, reassurance in knowing that if he moved his body one way, Irakli's would respond in kind. He could shuffle in closer and the arm around him would tighten; he could push his leg against Irakli's with the subtle force of a request for acknowledgement and Irakli's hand would settle just above his knee, his fingers squeezing the muscles of his thigh. The intention to kiss him could be conveyed with the right expression, the tilt of his head, and when they kissed Merab relished the habitual way Irakli's hand cupped his head, the way his fingertips drew paths along his scalp.

When they finished their beers, Merab got up to fetch new ones from the kitchen. As he stood, Irakli let his touch linger, his fingers twining in Merab's, his face turned up with a sweet smile. Merab paused, bent to kiss him for no other reason than that he could, and then made his way through the room, exchanging words here and there with friends who he hadn't noticed arrive.

The kitchen was even more packed than the living room - the window was open and people were smoking near it; someone was reheating a plate of khinkali in the microwave; Temo was pouring a tray of shots; and a pair of girls were leaning against the fridge watching a video on a phone, their heads bent together and smiles lit up by the screen. Rather than move them, Merab just helped himself to a couple of shot-glasses from the tray and left a kiss on Temo's cheek in payment.

He wove his way back through the hall and the living room, guarding the drinks carefully, practised enough not to spill any.

Irakli was still sitting on the couch talking with one of Mate's work friends, a flamboyant person called Dato. Irakli was wearing an expression of patient politeness that Merab recognised from when patrons at the bar got a bit too chatty but it wasn't busy enough to justify cutting them off.

It was Merab's pleasure to sweep in and rescue Irakli by summoning him to his feet with vodka.

Dato's expectant gaze and the interrupted conversation were temporarily forgotten.

Irakli took a glass as Merab explained that the beer had been out of reach. He shrugged and encouraged Merab to link arms with him, the two of them laughing. Glasses in hand, arms entwined, they threw their drinks back - Merab watched Irakli raise a finger to the vodka that he'd spilled on his lip and raced to beat the finger there with his own mouth. He lingered over the taste of vodka on skin until Irakli smiled and moved to kiss him back.

Merab had kind of hoped Dato would have grown bored and left at their display - Dato was decent company, but Merab found Dato’s passion for clothing a bit intense. Dato cared about fashion more than seemed in any way reasonable to Merab. Talking with Dato – or, more commonly, listening to Dato - could be wearisome.

But Dato was still there, watching them blithely.

Irakli laughed at Merab - there was gratitude and understanding in his eyes. But he gestured to Dato and explained they'd been talking about a charity fashion show Dato wanted to put on in summer. The clothes were to be inspired by traditional costume, and Dato wanted to bring some authentic moves to the catwalk.

Merab could tell from the sparkle in his eyes how seriously Irakli took the idea, but his dimples proved that his smile was genuine and he said he was going to demonstrate some moves to Dato. Did Merab want to help?

"Sure," Merab smirked.

They agreed with Dato on what kind of thing was needed - ideas that would be easy enough for the models to follow and to perform while in their outfits. The priority, Dato said, was to show off the clothes.

Merab thought of the heavy red chokha kept safely in a cupboard at his grandmother's house and couldn't imagine how Dato proposed to improve on it. But he encouraged Dato to stand up and join them anyway, and he and Irakli guided Dato through some simple steps.

Whether it was the hour, or the drink, or whether his legs were just tired from the day spent on his feet - Eliava, the bar, dancing at Nia's, dancing here at the house party - Merab felt himself move sluggishly. He had to work a bit harder than he was used to, and it frustrated him. But then he'd meet Irakli's eyes and feel a burst of energy, and he'd press on, not minding the sluggishness so much because of the company.

It was all good fun until Dato noticed some difference in what they were doing.

"So which way's right?" Dato asked, holding a hand up and alternating between two poses.

Merab recognised the criticism and felt himself bristle, but Irakli got there before him with an indignant scoff. "What does it matter, huh? It's for a fashion show, no one's going to be judging form and technique..."

"I just want to get it right, man." Dato shrugged.

Irakli would have continued to defend him, but Merab felt the weariness that had been in his limbs enfold his body more closely and he shook his head. "Do what Irakli shows you, Dato; he's doing it the proper way."

Irakli looked at him strangely but Dato just nodded.

They demonstrated the rest of the sequence, but Merab's interest had drifted. When Dato asked if they'd help out nearer the time, Merab remained noncommittal - and Irakli noticed it.

They went for a smoke on the balcony and Merab sensed Irakli's awkwardness - like he wanted to say something in Merab’s defence, but also like he didn't want to reopen any wounds. They settled for a heavily laden silence, leaning shoulder to shoulder, looking out over the silhouettes of the city skyline.

Normally Merab would have been looking forward to spending the rest of the night at Mate's, to catching up with everyone, to the endless dancing and the stupid videos people recorded on their phones. But tonight he was just tired. He shivered and shifted his arms on the cold balcony rail.

Before they could return to the party, Irakli arrested him with a soft touch and brought him close. Merab didn't want to hear his pity or his reassurance, but that wasn't what Irakli was offering.

"We don’t need to stay tonight. Do you want to come back to mine?" Irakli asked quietly. He touched his temple to Merab's, his mouth close to his ear. His hands rocked Merab's hips loosely, pushing and pulling, one side then the other.

Merab smiled, his eyes closed. He felt like he could have fallen asleep right there on his feet, lulled into a state of peace by Irakli's movements.

Irakli made a sound of disapproval tinged with worry and moved one hand to Merab's forehead. "You're really warm still. You feeling ok?"

"I'm fine." Merab shrugged his hand off and laughed. "Just tired."

Irakli's expression was soft and serious, his hand now on Merab's neck, his thumb moving along the line of his jaw. But whatever reservations he had, he buried them for the sake of the proud look in Merab's eyes and smiled. "I guess there's a first time for everything."

They took a taxi. Irakli claimed it was because his tips from earlier were weighing him down and Merab didn't argue it - the night was damp and cool and the walk up the hill seemed long.

At the little flat, Irakli went to check on his grandmother and Merab washed his face in warm water and brushed his teeth with the toothbrush he’d started leaving there. In the mirror his face was pale, but the feeling of the fresh water on his skin washed away some of the grubbiness and discomfort Dato's comments had left behind. He wondered whether he should have gone back to Ioseb's instead, to his own little bed, where nothing would distract him from the sleep he craved and he wouldn't have to think about what the body next to his could do that his couldn't.

But then Merab thought as well about the softness of Irakli's touch and the care in his dark eyes when he looked at him, the way he'd risen to Merab's defence without hesitation. He wanted to let Irakli know he was grateful for that, even if it was just in the silent way he held him in return.

With these conflicting thoughts churning through him mind, Merab curled among the familiar sheets to await Irakli’s return. He fell asleep within moments of his head touching the pillow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tfw you just want your favourite characters to get a really good night's sleep, huh? :)  
> Thank you for dropping by and reading, I hope the next update won't take quite so long! <3


	64. Chapter 64

Irakli didn't immediately recognise the sound of his own phone ringing. If anyone called this early in the day, it was his mother on the landline, and it was usually because his father had had a bad night.

He rolled over in the bed and fished about for the source of the noise. Through a sleepy squint he saw that the edges of the shutters were barely visible as a blue sketch on the far wall - it was _really_ early.

It was probably a wrong number, he thought with annoyance as his sleepy fingers finally found the phone cable and dragged the handset across the floor to where he could reach it.

The number wasn't one in his directory, and he considered not answering. But there were also a couple of unread messages, so he frowned and picked up.

"Hi?" He rubbed his eyes and lay back on the bed.

"Is that Irakli?" It was a woman's voice, and vaguely familiar.

"Yeah?"

"Are you sure?" She asked drily. "It's Salome, Ana's girlfriend. We didn't have your number, but we got it from Mate."

"Yeah?" Irakli repeated, his hand over his eyes, making the dark of the room darker still. "What's up?"

"Ana thought you'd want to know - there's a fire down at the market."

He felt stupid, still mostly asleep. Irakli threw his hand down on the bed and frowned up at the deep blue of the ceiling. "The market?"

" _Eliava_." Salome's tone said she also thought he was being stupid, but the sound of that word made Irakli's heart jolt in his chest.

He sat up and was half out of bed before he even knew what he was asking. "What? A fire? What's happened?"

"That's what I'm trying to tell you, man," Salome said with a sigh. "Ana's heading over to report on it. She can drop by and pick you up, if you want?"

"Yeah," he answered without thinking. "Yeah. Does she know where? No? I'll text you the address. I'll wait down on the street for her. What's her car?"

He tried to text when he'd hung up but had to light a cigarette first to settle his nerves. He sat on the edge of his bed, still only half-awake, blinking at his phone screen as he breathed in the nicotine and hoped it would calm him. The other messages had been from Ana's phone, saying nothing more than what Salome had just told him. He texted the address to her and to Salome.

He tried calling Merab but the line just rang and rang, and rang and rang. Irakli covered his eyes as he listened to the repeated tone, and he finished his cigarette too quickly, coughing at the tension that gripped his throat. He texted Merab as well, rephrasing the draft time and again and trying not to sound too desperate:

_I heard about the fire - heading over with Ana. Hope things are ok._

He'd already sent it and then he sat there with the smoke still drifting from the filter between his fingers, staring furiously at the words. “Things”? Irakli shook his head at himself. What things? All he could think about was seeing Merab and holding him and confirming that not a single amber-coloured strand of his hair had been touched by whatever had happened.

He dressed in a scramble of twisted socks and backwards tops, fighting each item of clothing and swearing under his breath, one eye always on his phone.

He woke his grandmother with apologetic ruthlessness, switching on the kitchen light and laying out breakfast things and cold coffee for her.

"I'm sorry it's so early, granny - I have to go and check on my friend."

She was confused, but at least there would be breakfast when she figured it out. Irakli jotted down a message for her to read later - a reminder if she forgot what he was telling her now - and left the radio on with the report of the fire.

It wasn't a massive blaze, he gathered, not as bad as the one a few years previously had been, but a few stalls had been engulfed, and there were fears of it spreading, and about the kinds of things that might get caught up in the fire.

The dawn sky was silver and violet by the time he shuffled impatiently up and down on the pavement where he'd told Ana he'd wait. He heard the growl of her dusty white Opal from a distance, and was inside it before it had fully come to a stop.

"Fuck, how is it colder inside this thing than outside?" he muttered as he wrestled the seatbelt on.

Ana glanced at him with a withering look. "I almost didn't recognise you without the leather, Iko."

He was wearing his father's old coat, still with the jagged rip in the outer layer of fabric. Irakli shrugged. "And your hat's stupid, too."

Ana barked a laugh. "My sister knitted it; shut up!"

"Yeah, well, it's my dad's coat," Irakli admitted, fidgeting nervously inside the oversized garment and leaning his elbow on the window as he stared blankly at the streets passing by.

Ana looked at him again and adjusted the heating controls. She approached the subject gently, her voice soft but professional as she listed what she knew: the number of stalls engulfed, the zone, the square metres of property that had been swallowed up.

"And all uninsured, of course." She shook her head.

"What about the people?" Irakli finally asked.

Ana sighed. "The police aren't saying much. It sounds chaotic - some vendors were setting up for the day when it broke out, but it spread so quickly because of all the oil and crap they insist on storing there. Tell me - have you ever seen a fire extinguisher in that place?"

Irakli just shook his head. It didn't seem worth mentioning he'd only been there once - and he'd really not been there to keep an eye on the safety provisions.

"They're trying to keep people out now, but there's a pretty big crowd at the entrance from what I've heard..."

He leaned forwards in his seat as they made their way down towards the river and above them the sky lightened. Ahead, on the left bank of the Mtkvari, black smoke left a greasy smudge on the dawn, and you could smell in the air that the fire was feeding on rubber and plastic and chemical detritus as much as rotten wood and fabric.

Ana parked on the west side and they crossed the river, walking towards the sound of the fire and the crowd, a grumbling, menacing bubble of noise within the city. A border police helicopter circled the site, and the blue lights of emergency vehicles flickered, strobe-like, on the buildings around.

Irakli followed close at Ana's elbow as she made fearless progress through the edge of the gathering. They came to a halt where the people were bunched together more thickly, and Ana craned her neck to see over those ahead of her. They could hear the vendors closest to the security cordon demanding the right to get in and ensure the safety of their goods.

Ana had a job to do, but Irakli had only one thought in his mind: find Merab and get him out of there. He checked his phone for messages, and there were none - the signal bar was empty. The network was probably flooded with calls from people trying to get in touch with each other about the blaze.

He rubbed his face, which already felt dirty from the air, and tried not to think about Merab, trapped somewhere in among the smoke and the heat, unable to get a message out himself.

Would he have messaged Irakli? No - David, surely.

Irakli stared at his phone screen as though he might change the reception by doing so.

Ana was already interviewing people around them - mostly they were irate stall holders, but some were simply curious, or had come to comment on what they suspected the cause was.

When no messages came through, no matter how intensely Irakli wished for them, he looked at the grey heads around him and stifled a cough with the back of his sleeve. The longer they were there, the more he noticed the weight of the air: the taste of it and the texture of soot and grit on everything. He tried to tuck his mouth into his collar, but it didn't help much. Above them, noise from the helicopter blanketed everything along with the dust and smoke. It covered the sound of the blaze and the shouts of the emergency services and churned the soupy atmosphere, throwing up grit and driving unpredictable gusts of thick smoke over the crowd.

Irakli felt something like panic rising up inside him, standing trapped, elbow to elbow in the crowd. More people were shoving in from behind, and occasionally those in front of him surged forwards and then back when a few foolhardy optimists drove towards the police cordon.

After one such wave of movement, Irakli had to reach a protective arm out to stop a man from blindly stepping backwards into Ana - and he was immediately cursed for his efforts.

The man he had pushed away turned to shout at him, and Irakli felt his skin go cold, stress and fury ready to wipe all sense from his response. His shoulders dropped and his chin rose, and he still held an arm out protectively between Ana and the stranger as he moved forwards, answering the threat in the other man's tone, shouting his own stupid, defensive words.

Ana grabbed his arm and scolded him, but his eyes were locked with the other's, both of them terrified, and only able to express it in one way.

It was only when Ana pushed herself between them with the help of an old woman that Irakli had to break eye contact and remind himself to breathe, no matter how foul the air was.

"Hey! Hey!" Ana struck his chest with the side of her fist. "What the fuck are you doing? You want to find someone, ask around - how is picking a fight going to help?"

"This ass nearly trod on you." Irakli gestured at the stranger.

Ana smiled thinly, but it did not reach her eyes. "And I know how to get out of the way, thank you very much. Go and look for him. We'll meet up at my car afterwards."

Irakli glared at the other man and thought how much better he'd feel if he got to use his fists on something. He felt powerless, wedged there in the middle of a powerless mob, with no information, no developments filtering through, just the same inane pleas bouncing from one person to the next. How the fuck would it help to simply add his voice to those crying out questions with no answers?

He swore and it almost set the other guy off again, but the elderly woman helping Ana pushed both of them away from each other with a gnarled hand so surprisingly strong that it made Irakli look down at her.

She wore a grease-stained apron and her grey hair was tied back beneath a scarf. She smelled intensely of coffee and shawarma, and she pressed close enough that Irakli could smell her over the pollution in the air. The reek of spiced meat and grease battled with scent of the acrid smoke and Irakli nearly retched at the combination.

"Who are you looking for, boy?" she asked.

"Ah." He glanced around, as though he was only answering to humour her. "A friend asked us to check up on Ioseb Lominadze. Do you know if he's here?"

"Ioseb?" She repeated. "My stall is not far from Ioseb Lominadze's. He and his boy were here early, helping people save their goods inside the market. Then the police made everyone clear out, even those good folk - they'll be along the fence, I expect, by the police trucks."

"Were they arrested, auntie?" Ana asked the old woman.

"Arrested? No, no. Some people were taken to the hospital..."

Irakli felt winded. He stood up as tall as he could to try and see where it was that the old woman meant - but the squat grey militia trucks were lined up along the edge of the fence, and Irakli couldn't see any of those who were sheltering behind them.

"Thank you," he murmured, his disagreement with the other man forgotten.

He pushed past people, sliding his way between them with singular focus.

He'd feared that those who were gathered over by the trucks would be under some kind of guard, despite what the old stallholder had said, but when he finally approached the area he saw only a few dishevelled-looking paramedics and police officers comparing notes.

Irakli scanned the group of people until he saw the form he had longed to lay eyes on. He stopped abruptly, feet sticking to the pavement. He couldn't name the feelings threatening to overwhelm him. He hadn't consciously let himself think of whatever the worst might have been - he just knew that now, in his mind, he was sprinting across the small stretch of space between them to scoop Merab in his arms, his face was buried in the warmth between Merab's jaw and the collar of his jacket. In his mind, Irakli was already taking his hand and leading him away from that place, smoothing his fingers over the sooty smudges on Merab's skin and cleaning every one of them away.

But Merab had not noticed him - he stood with his hands in his coat pockets, hunched and serious, talking to a man who was slumped on the floor against one of the wheels of a military vehicle.

Merab's jeans were sodden, spattered up to the knees with grey, unfriendly-looking mud, and his coat was scuffed with streaks of black soot. His hair was dark with sweat and his face was obscured with grease and who knew what else. When he took a hand from his pocket to offer a cigarette to the man on the ground, Irakli felt his heart clench possessively at the sight of the gauze bandage wrapping his knuckles.

The man sitting down must have been Ioseb. If Merab looked a mess, Ioseb appeared thoroughly exhausted, sweaty and greasy in his singed tracksuit, his short grey hair sticking up where he'd run a hand through it.

He looked up at Merab and gestured with the cigarette, and whatever he said made Merab lean away with an eyeroll. Then Ioseb took a hip flask from his tracksuit pocket and swigged from it as he smoked.

Merab fidgeted near him, coughing into his fist until Ioseb offered him a sip. Whatever was in the flask didn't stop the cough though, and Irakli saw Merab's throat move with discomfort, saw him grimace as he handed the flask back to Ioseb and put the cigarette packet away without taking one for himself.

Irakli didn't know what to do now. He'd drifted a little nearer, but he didn't want to approach Merab while he was with Ioseb. And besides - he was fine, wasn't he? Irakli had confirmed that. He could just leave now, get on with the rest of his day and he'd see Merab at the bar that evening.

But the rest of his day still felt like an irrelevance until he'd really confirmed that Merab was ok, until he'd touched him and kissed him and pressed his face to skin and clothes that still, deep beneath the layers of grime, smelled uniquely, perfectly of Merab.

So Irakli stood awkwardly by the bonnet of one of the trucks, watching Merab and Ioseb, and listening to the dry, splintered sound of Merab's coughing. He blinked at the gritty air and cast about for something else to look at, something to do, but he could find nothing. That repeated sound, rough and involuntary - it went through him like a gunshot, and he lost focus on what was before him, his mind clouding over with the memories of an all too similar sound.

He didn't remember when he had first learned how serious his father's illness was - he remembered Vano leaning over a bench coughing, his breath rasping, his lit cigarette standing proudly between his fingers. Irakli had asked him why he didn't quit, as it only made his lungs worse, and Vano had asked him what other pleasures he'd like to see him cut out of the last months of his life. Irakli hadn't thought twice about his own cigarette - he was young and indestructible, and times had changed. They'd been watching construction work on one of the new hotels, Irakli remembered that. But he didn't remember if Vano had told him about the diagnosis himself, or if he'd told him and Elizabeth together, or if he'd just left it to Elizabeth to explain to Irakli.

It seemed a conspicuous thing to forget, but try as he might, Irakli could not bring the scene to mind.

He blinked and looked up to see Merab walking towards him, his shoulders hunched and his stride purposeful, his eyes bright with anticipation. The set of his mouth was pleased, and trying not to show it.

Irakli could no longer see Ioseb where he had been sitting before.

He leaned his weight against the front of the truck - if he didn't need to concentrate on keeping himself upright, he could put more care into making sure the relief he felt wasn't visible to the whole bloody world.

Merab paused a couple of paces away, his hands in his pockets, his smile fighting to spread across his face. "What are you doing here?" he asked.

"Ah..." Irakli blinked and rubbed his scar. His laugh sounded pathetic, even to him - but it was easy enough to smile at Merab's smile. "I don't know if you noticed, but the market's on fire..."

"Pfff." Merab rolled his eyes and grinned.

With his hands behind him, Irakli hooked his fingers in the grille at the front of the truck, like he needed to hold himself back against it. "Ana gave me a lift down. She's interviewing people over by the gates." He gestured vaguely in the direction of the thickest part of the crowd. "I tried texting, but..." He returned his grip to the metal behind him and shrugged at the ground.

Merab took his phone out to check it and saw Irakli's gaze move to his bandaged hand.

"It's nothing," he said, pausing to cough again. "Just caught it pulling some stuff clear of one of the stalls. I don't have any signal."

"Me either." Irakli hoped it sounded as reassuring as he meant it to be.

"Don't you have to be at the ensemble today?" Merab was looking at him strangely.

Irakli just stared at him in disbelief. He hadn't once stopped to think about that all morning - the dances would be there next week, but he'd needed to know that Merab was ok.

"Ah, fuck that." He shook his head with a smile.

Merab's response was hesitant, and Irakli knew, watching him, that the decision might not have been so straightforward for Merab had their places been reversed. But he nodded, and a fleeting cloud of amusement passed over his features, though his eyes were serious.

It didn't bother Irakli as much as it might have done - he knew the hold the ensemble had had over Merab. But while there were a lot of things Irakli was willing to do for him, taking Aleko seriously was not one of them.

"Think you'll be going back to work today?" Irakli nodded at the outer fence of the market.

Merab shook his head and looked back to where his father had been sitting. "Nah...they've been taking statements from everyone. They say they need to check it wasn't started deliberately. One of my dad's friends lost his stall. They're going back to the flat to drink and play backgammon."

"Oh. What about you?" Irakli asked lightly, wearing a veneer of mild curiosity. "Are you a fan of backgammon?"

The look Merab gave him - still, but for a direct, knowing challenge in his eyes, and the smallest twitch of his lips - made Irakli tighten his grip on the truck behind him and swallow.

"Not really. I was going to go to the baths and clean up."

"Ah." Irakli nodded again.

He could feel his cheeks growing warm, but before he could execute his next move in the little game they were playing, Merab let out another series of hollow coughs.

Irakli had taken a step towards him before he remembered himself, before he saw the surprise in Merab's eyes at the movement. He couldn't turn his concern into a laugh now, and said as shortly as he could, "Just come back to mine."

"Ok..." Merab agreed softly, standing still, making Irakli come to terms with the fact that he had been the one to close the distance between them.

He didn't know how long they killed time by Ana's car, trying to keep warm with a breakfast bought from a nearby bakery, waiting as patiently as they could for the privacy they needed to be able to touch each other. Merab's cough remained, even at a distance from the market and the fire, and Irakli talked about nonsense with hyperactive enthusiasm in order to disguise his worry.

On the drive back, Merab sat in the back seat, and Irakli sat in the front, his hands clenched together in his lap, fist to fist.

They heard from Ana that the fire had been contained and the emergency services were confident it could be extinguished within the afternoon.

Ana talked to Merab about his experience of the morning - how he and Ioseb had hurried down to the site when one of Ioseb's friends had called to alert him. How they'd worked with water and sand to try and direct the fire away from stalls and flammable substances, all the while trying to save what could be moved from its path.

Irakli listened to them arrange to meet for an interview and watched the smoky black sky in the wing-mirror. At that moment, he just wanted to forget that Eliava existed. He wanted to wash every trace of it from Merab's skin, from his clothes, from his conversation - and maybe then he could clear away that racking cough as well.


	65. Chapter 65

There was no escape from the subject of the market. They got in and Rusudan was full of questions - Irakli's daily routine was off, she couldn't tell what day of the week it was, and she seemed to forget the year as she patted Merab's arm and called him Zurab and talked about people she hadn't seen for years.

Merab smiled wearily as she talked. He'd slumped into his usual seat when they'd been drawn into the kitchen by Rusudan's questions. He was always polite around her, so he would not interrupt, though he stifled a cough now and then, and his eyes wandered again and again to Irakli as he tidied away Rusudan's breakfast and bedding.

When they could at last slip away to Irakli's room - with the need to lend Merab a towel for the shower foremost among Irakli's spoken excuses - he was ready to ignore the fact that Merab still stank like a chemical fire. He shut the door behind him with his body and pulled Merab to him, his hands tight on his waist, Merab's hips against his as they kissed hungrily in the dark room.

 _Fuck it_ , Irakli thought, one of his hands releasing Merab's restless body to comb deep in his hair. He needed a shower, but he'd need to get his clothes off first anyway.

Merab's hold on him was just as demanding, his hands at the back of Irakli's neck, thumbs against his jaw. But he broke away momentarily and swallowed, like he was fighting the need to cough again.

With a laugh to hide the discomfort, his eyes closed and a smile on his lips, Merab asked teasingly, "Were you really worried?"

"Mm," Irakli hummed against his mouth. He didn't want to admit that he still was.

Merab was kissing him again, and he guessed he was off the hook when it came to answering the question more decisively. He was settling into the pleasure of touch, his kisses growing languid, the hand that had been at Merab's waist tucking up and under his tops.

"I really, really need to shower." Again, Merab was the one who pulled away, nipping teasingly at Irakli's lip as he did so.

Irakli forced out a reluctant laugh. "Yeah, you do..."

Knowing full well what he was doing, Merab reached over Irakli's shoulder and flipped the light on. He stepped back with a grin and pulled his tops off in one movement - he swayed his hips effortlessly to avoid the last, longing grasp of Irakli's hand. The sight of him made Irakli's mouth dry, every time: the promise of strength in the muscles he could see defined beneath flawless skin, the familiar patches of black ink, the trail of silken hairs following the soft furrows of his body.

Merab emptied the pockets of his jeans onto the chair and them shimmied out of them, watching Irakli the whole time with a playful, pleased expression.

Somewhat mechanically, Irakli moved to the cupboard and drew out a towel. He handed it to Merab, who stalked up to him again wearing nothing but his underwear and the bandage on his hand, his face and arms ridiculously grubby next to the rest of his body. He kissed Irakli in a way that made Irakli ache to follow him into the bathroom, to stand with him under the stream of warm water and let it wash away all the mistakes and missed opportunities.

Merab threw the towel over his shoulders and laughed again as he slipped out of the room.

Irakli leaned back against the cupboard doors with his eyes closed and one hand in his pocket, trying to settle himself enough to get on with things while Merab showered.

He could smell the fire on his own clothes and took the opportunity to get changed as well. He gathered up his and Merab's stuff and added it to the laundry basket by the door.

"Granny, I'm just going downstairs with the washing..." he called.

That done, he returned to his room and flopped on the bed to smoke and listen to the noise of the shower water splashing against Merab's skin, mapping his contours in sound.

His peace was interrupted by the return of Merab's cough, this time echoing in the tiny bathroom, making the streams of water crack against the tiles as his body struggled with the force of his coughing.

The sound made Irakli flinch, and then, as it continued, it made him angry. What the fuck was Ioseb doing, encouraging his son to work in a place like that? What the fuck was wrong with the old dinosaurs at the national ensemble, that they'd throw a priceless treasure like Merab onto a poisoned scrapheap? What the fuck was up with this country, that hadn't found a way to stop Soviet-era construction from killing people who were just trying to make a living?

He sank into a foul mood, and not even Merab's return could fully lift him from it.

Irakli looked mournfully up at that perfect body, at the way, with his hair slicked back and wet, Merab's features were even more arresting than they usually were.

He shook his head, lying on the bed and leaning slumped back against the carpeted wall. "It sucks," he muttered as Merab came close enough to touch. He ran an outstretched finger down a red mark on Merab's forearm, looking for emerging bruises, taking in the blistering on the back of his hand.

"What sucks?" Merab asked disinterestedly, leaning forwards with his hands on the bed, either side of Irakli.

"That you have to go back to that place." Irakli's fingers trailed carefully up and down Merab's arm, and he stared at the movement, barely thinking about the words he said. "I wish the whole thing had burnt to the ground."

Merab snorted, but his reply was gently defensive. "Don't say that. It's not like my dad has anything else to do."

"Alright, let him work there, but why should you have to?" The question came out with more feeling than he intended, hot and frustrated. His hand dropped to the bed and he looked up at Merab.

"I don't have to..." Merab stood up slowly. He folded his arms loosely over his stomach but then had to stifle another cough.

Irakli surged forwards himself, sitting up on the bed, pushing the ashtray he'd been using away. The realisation that the tobacco that had been relaxing him might only have aggravated Merab's cough made him more defensive, more afraid, and his voice rose. "So don't go back there!"

Merab looked down at him with a troubled frown. He still spoke quietly when he said, "What do you care about it? I need the money..."

Irakli was too caught up in his desperate need to persuade Merab that he had other choices. He gestured for emphasis, shrugging at Merab's excuses. "Find something else - there must be other work -"

Merab's composure broke at that and he snapped back: "That's easy for you to say - we can't all just walk back into the national ensemble!"

In the silence that followed, Irakli belatedly remembered that his grandmother was in the next room, and wondered if she'd heard their raised voices. He swore and rubbed his face.

Merab copied the gesture, making a regretful sound into his palms. "I'm sorry...I didn't mean..."

"It's ok," Irakli sighed. He looked up again and ran a contrite eye over Merab's body. He shifted towards the edge of the bed and reached a hand out, seeking to draw his arm down, to take his hand away from his face. "It's ok, you did - but it's ok. I'd give you my place -"   
Merab flinched and stepped away from his touch.

"That doesn't help..." he said miserably even as Irakli continued to talk over him.   
" - If they'd have you back, what do I care?"  
"That doesn't help!"   
Merab's sharpness made Irakli defensive again too, and he was sitting up on the edge of the bed, half-shouting nonsense, no idea of what it was he was letting himself say as fear engulfed him.

"It's not my life. It's just something I do during the week while I -" Irakli blinked up at Merab, who stood with his arms wrapped tight around his body, his expression a complex pattern of pain and hope.

"...While you what?" Merab prompted him softly.  
"...While I wait to see you again."

Merab let Irakli's fingers close on his elbow once more and beckon him a step closer. He looked like he didn't quite believe what Irakli was saying, but all Irakli knew was that he could prove it, he could prove it so easily if Merab would just come to him again, let Irakli smooth the goosebumps forming on his skin as he stood there with a towel around his waist, his body drying in the cold air.

Merab was still wary though, still watching Irakli, looking for more, and Irakli murmured garbled nonsense, desperate to make him see that he'd give anything to make Merab happy, do anything to keep him safe. "I just thought. I thought what if I waited, and waited, and in the end that place had ruined you, like. Well. Like other people." Irakli's hand encircled the firmness of Merab's biceps, running over chilled skin, his expression a plea and an apology.

Merab looked down at him and fascination lit up his eyes, though his expression remained cautious. It caught Irakli completely off-guard when Merab did decide to accept his words. He leaned forward and captured Irakli's face between his hands for a messy, forceful kiss.

He climbed onto the bed, straddling Irakli, loosening the towel he wore. He kissed him furiously, and it took a moment for Irakli's pleasure-numbed body to catch up.

Merab pushed himself against him and Irakli gathered him close, running his hands over his back, bringing warmth back with his touch. He pulled his own tops off while Merab undid his trousers and dragged them and his underwear down so that they could entwine their limbs, so that skin could touch skin again as quickly as possible. Merab was on top of him, his hands still at Irakli's neck, Irakli's hands all over him, reaching from his shoulders, down the valley of his spine, over the curve of his arse.

Irakli wanted to prove to him how much he cared; Merab was determined to show him that Irakli's worry was misplaced. The competitive tussle left the bedclothes in a tangle on the floor, left Irakli sneezing at the dust they'd disturbed from the carpet on the wall, knocked a book from the shelf above the bed that bounced off Merab's shoulder and almost hit Irakli in the face, and drove the memory of cold air from the room.

In the aftermath, Irakli found himself again pinned beneath Merab's warm body, Merab's fingers still in his hair as he leaned over him, kissing him breathlessly. Words he didn't have the courage to speak out loud stirred in Irakli's mind and he just held onto Merab as tightly as he could. When he had an opportunity to do so, he fished one of the blankets from the floor, shaking the fallen book off it, and wrapped them both in it. He turned them on their sides and blinked nervously at Merab, whose face lay so close to his on the mattress, whose expression seemed to demand that Irakli say what he was thinking. Instead, with determination, Irakli rolled him, laughing, away, and drew Merab's back towards his chest instead. He pushed his face into the back of Merab's neck and kissed the sharp ridges of bone there.

They settled like that, letting silence come back to the room, the shutters closed on daylight, their breathing growing steady.

Occasionally, Merab stifled another series of coughs, and Irakli's arms tightened on him when he did, but neither of them said anything about it.

It felt like it had been a long time before Merab spoke quietly, not turning to see Irakli's response. "Sorry. Everyone seems to have an idea of what I should be doing with my life. Mary, David, my parents, Granny, you know..."

Irakli pressed his lips to the chain of Merab's necklace, feeling the warmth it had absorbed from his body. He closed his eyes and just said, "Mm," so that Merab knew he was listening.

He sighed, his chest expanding in Irakli's hold. He covered one of Irakli's hands with his own, his fingers restless even though the rest of him seemed peaceful. "I don't want to let them down. But I'm sick of just doing what other people want me to do."

"They're just looking out for you," Irakli said sleepily, trying to keep his voice light, to remind himself they were talking about Mary and David and everyone else, and not about himself.

"I know. But they don't really get it."

It was Irakli's turn to say, "I know," letting Merab's skin muffle the words.

He waited, wondering if Merab would say anything else about the ensemble. Irakli had meant what he'd said - if by some magic means he could simply swap their places, he would have done. That seemed like the more sensible world, where Merab stunned the country with his dance and Irakli watched proudly from a stall selling the kinds of materials his father had worked with.

But Merab had nothing more to add, and he shuffled back, closer to Irakli, holding Irakli's arms tight about him.

They drifted off like that, and Irakli might have slept the day away if a coughing fit hadn't woken him some time later. Merab's body shuddered in his arms, and Irakli heard the laboured wheezing of his breath. He screwed his eyes shut and held onto him, but even after the episode had passed and Merab seemed to have dropped off again, it took Irakli time to relax once more.

He woke up again and it was dusk outside. Merab was dressed - entirely in clothes he'd borrowed from Irakli's cupboard - and he crouched by the bed with a smile, offering Irakli a mug of freshly brewed tea.

Irakli sat up and rubbed his eyes before taking the drink. "What time is it?"

"Couple of hours until the shift at the bar," Merab told him.

"Hm." Irakli sipped the hot tea and gazed at Merab's back as he came to sit nearby on the edge of the bed.

Merab picked up the book that had fallen to the floor and laughed cheerfully, although his laughter was interrupted by more coughing. He showed the book to Irakli: it was a children's story in an old edition, about a lullaby and a kidnapped princess. Jokingly, Merab murmured a few lines of the lullaby before reaching up and putting the book back in its place.

Irakli ran a hand down his back.

"Why don't you take the evening off? I can cover your late shift."

Merab glanced over his shoulder. Despite his perky demeanour and roguish, satisfied smile, his skin looked pale to Irakli - waxen and clammy. "Yeah? What for?"

"It's been a pretty long day, right? I thought you could use a rest. You can have the pay and any tips I make; I don't mind."

Merab twisted around then, his expression full of mischief. "I just had a rest..." He laid his lips gently on Irakli's.

"Mm," Irakli had to agree, wondering why negotiating with Merab always had to be like juggling soap.

It wasn't long until something aggravated Merab’s cough again though, and he bent over his knees, fighting against the air to draw breath.

Irakli waited for him to be able to sit up, his hand flat and reassuring on his back. "Go and get some rest. I'll cover for you."

He could see from his expression how much it frustrated Merab to admit that he needed the break, but gratitude won out in the end, and he nodded and smiled. "Thanks. I owe you."

Irakli responded with a quiet laugh, but he thought to himself that Merab didn't owe him or anyone else a damned thing.


	66. Chapter 66

Merab left, and Irakli found the flat silent and cold without him. He tidied his room and dealt with the laundry and food for the evening, and Rusudan was also quiet, watching the TV pensively, but not chattering along with the gameshows like she usually did.

Irakli was at the counter, slicing cheese and vegetables, when Rusudan said thoughtfully, "This flat used to be filled with so much love - do you remember it, Eliko?"

Irakli shook his head and smiled. "It's Iko, not Eliko, Granny..."

"Iko is too young to know it," she said decisively, rapping her knuckles on the table. "We argue, Eliko, but it's because we love each other. I just want you to think carefully before you marry this man."

Irakli raised his eyebrows at the tomatoes. He'd never paid much attention to his mother's reasons for leaving home, and he didn't know what had prompted this now.

He expected Rusudan to return to the topic as he placed things on the table, but she didn't elaborate; she was still gazing at the television screen.

It was only when Irakli sat down and she switched off the TV that he saw the redness in her eyes.

"Granny, what's the matter?" Irakli leaned over and covered one of her hands with his. He always spoke to her with a fond smile, but it was a struggle in that moment - he worried, suddenly, that something else was going to go wrong today, after the averted tragedies of the fire and the argument.

"Oh, Irakli, child, I was just thinking that it's been so long since there was such love in this flat." She smiled and turned her hand beneath his grip, hooking her soft, cold fingers with his and squeezing gently.

He blinked and smiled, unsure where the present detour in her thoughts was leading. He made a sound that could mean whatever she wanted it to mean - agreement, happiness - and took his hand back to continue assembling things on his plate.

"It brings back memories, you know." She was watching him, not paying attention to her own supper.

"What was that, Granny?" Irakli popped a syrupy fig in his mouth and glanced at his watch. He'd slept through lunch and was hungry, but now he needed to finish quickly and get to the bar. It was going to be a long night.

"That boy. He brings it with him," Rusudan said happily, and wiped away the wetness at the edge of her eye.

Irakli chewed the fruit slowly. He glanced up and saw that there was pleasure in her expression, but he still could not face it. He studied the rest of the things on his plate carefully and forced out a laugh. "I don't know what you mean."

She gestured slightly to him, the old habit of a teacher leading her class. "Yes. I heard you fighting. No one has fought like that in this place since your mother left."

Irakli cursed himself internally. He took a mouthful of water and mumbled, "Sorry, Granny."

"Sorry, what are you sorry for? People who fight like that love each other very much. What happened?"

He looked at her with puzzlement, uncertainty written in the set of his mouth. "People fight out of love? That's ridiculous, Granny."

"No, I love your mother very much, and I know she loves me back. But we couldn't be in the same house, despite that. We cared too much for each other, but could not agree on who was right. Now, you and your friend Merab are on good terms again, aren't you?"

 _Fuck_ , it was like being lectured in class again, but Irakli knew there was no wriggling out of that gaze by making light of things and hoping to be dismissed. He'd never got good at lying to his grandmother when she asked him anything directly, lucidly - he'd not had the practice.

Good terms? His cheeks grew warm as, involuntarily, the memory of Merab leaning over him, pinning him to the bed with thirsty, rough kisses drifted by. "I guess..."

"Tell me what happened." Rusudan gestured for him to talk, and then turned to her own supper, confident that he would obey her.

Irakli laughed awkwardly at his sandwich. "Oh, it was just the fire this morning. I don't think he should work there anymore."

What was he actually admitting to? An argument with a friend, nothing more...

Rusudan nodded as though it all made sense to her now. "Well, he needs to work, Iko. Not everyone can dance for a living."

It felt like a low blow, though she had no idea of the reasons why it would sting so much to hear that. "Yeah, thanks Granny; that's what he said, too."

She was silent as she sprinkled salt over the tomatoes and cucumber on her plate and picked at them. Irakli hoped that was the end of it and hurried to finish everything he'd served himself.

But Rusudan ate leisurely, as she always did. She dabbed at her face with her napkin, cleaned her fingers on it, and took a sip of water. "He isn't well? That wasn't you I heard coughing earlier?"

Irakli swallowed a mouthful of bread and cheese too quickly, and thumped his chest with his fist. At least that would explain his discomfort when he spoke, he figured. "It's just a cough. I'm covering his shift at the bar tonight."

"You're a good boy. I'm happy you have such a good friend."

"Thanks, Granny..."

Rusudan folded her hands on the table, content to speechify between morsels as though she were at a supra. "It's important for boys to have close friends. Your grandfather's friends from the university, Giorgi and Jozi, were inseparable. They helped each other through so much hardship. And you boys know nothing of our hardships back then - oh!" She shook her head, eyes to the ceiling. "But when they were older, they were happy, and they both found lovely wives."

 _With a bit of extra persuasion from the threat of the gulag_ , Irakli thought, vindictively peeling the skin off a tangerine. "That's good to know, Granny," he muttered.

"They remained lifelong friends. Giorgi used to live quite close by, in fact. I remember Eliko playing with his little children after school..." Rusudan fiddled with the things on her plate and then chose a slice of pepper to eat.

Irakli felt himself relax as she segued into memories of his mother's childhood. He finished his own meal and apologised for leaving her so quickly, and all she said was that it was unhealthy to rush about after a meal.

The shift was long, and the tips were hard-won without Merab by his side, but he texted him as he left Lasha locking up for the night, telling him what he'd made and what the most ridiculous requests had been, and Merab texted back almost immediately. In that way, he had company on the walk home and forgot his tiredness until he had made it to bed.

Aleko was sour with him the following day, but Irakli enjoyed it - being the reluctant golden boy in class had never really sat easy with him, and he just shrugged and said he'd had other things to take care of, when Aleko had asked him for details in front of the class. His insouciance won him respect from Luka and the other boys, and what could Aleko say? He wouldn't kick him out; he needed him too much.

Instead, he growled, "It had better not become a habit," and spent the rest of the class looking for mistakes in Irakli's form.

He found precious few, and stalked Irakli to the door of the studio at the end of the day, stopping him before he could join the others in the changing rooms.

"Now tell me: what happened yesterday?" Aleko’s hand was flat on the door, and Irakli's was on the handle.

Irakli raised his brows with an innocent shrug. "Family crisis. My grandmother was sick. I needed to look after her."

"Ketie telephoned your grandmother on the number you left here. She said you weren't home."

"I was out getting medicine for her." These lies were lies Irakli could have come up with in his sleep.

Aleko studied him with hawkish intensity.

Irakli doubted Rusudan would have been very coherent over the phone - it had taken her the whole day to settle into her moment of unnerving clarity regarding his and Merab's closeness. In the morning, she would have been scatty and confused, an unreliable witness to anyone's account.

So Aleko remained suspicious, but he had to nod. "I don't like finding out only on the day itself when I am missing a dancer. Not least when that dancer is meant to be my reserve in the case of emergencies."

"I understand, sir."

Aleko grunted. "Good. Make sure you telephone Ketie before she has to go looking for you if it happens again, hm?"

"It won't happen again, sir." All too quickly, he heard the honorific becoming sarcastic in his mouth.

"That's not up to you, though, is it? I wish your grandmother the best, boy," Aleko said with his own knowing sarcasm. He released the door and stepped back.

Irakli hurried home to eat and then called Merab as he left the flat shortly afterwards, heading back into town for his shift at the bar.

Merab sounded wretched, even over the crackly line.

He hadn't been to Eliava that day, but he'd been resting and he was sure he'd feel fine by the time his shift was due to start.

Irakli shut him up as quickly as he could - listening to the obvious pain in his breathing, to the cough he still had, was enough to make Irakli want to skip his own shift and go straight to Merab. But, instead, all he said was, "I'll do it. I'll cover it again. Don't be stupid."

It wasn’t ideal on a Friday night. Usually, their shifts overlapped through the busiest part of the evening, but there was always someone drinking there who’d worked a shift for Lasha before and could chip in and help if need be.

Merab argued weakly and Irakli insisted. He hoped Merab heard the sincerity in his voice when he wished him well and told him to rest.

On Saturday morning, on too little sleep, Irakli was groggy and reluctant to get up, but he could hear his grandmother in the kitchen and pulled on his jogging bottoms and top to go and help her. She asked where Merab was, and when he reminded her that Merab hadn’t been well she made a sympathetic sound.

It led her to memories of sick friends, and Irakli tried not to listen as he arranged tea.

Since the fire, bound up with his worries for Merab, was another desperate, insistent thought: he needed to see his father.

He'd tried to pretend to himself that the impulse was the result of sleep-deprivation, but as he sat listening to Rusudan talk about people who had probably died years ago, he rubbed his face and thought about Vano. At least in Batumi he'd been able to see him, to have a one-sided conversation as he reminded himself of the reality he and his mother were still waiting for, half full of trepidation about losing him, half wishing he could find peace.

Anything more than a one-sided conversation with Vano would have been torture, Irakli accepted. He was still glad not to have had to answer to his father for any of his actions in recent months, but he found himself missing the sunny afternoons by Vano's sickbed, an open book on his lap as he dozed, dreaming of Merab.

Not that he missed only being able to dream of Merab, but it had seemed to be a time when he could feel close to Vano like never before. He smiled ruefully down at his tea, thinking about how ridiculous it was that he'd liked his father more as a bed-bound romantic than as the ever-critical head of the house. He felt more of a connection to the sick old man he'd become than to the performances of invulnerability he'd put on before.

Resolute, Irakli tapped his lighter on the table and put his cigarettes away without taking one out.

"How about I call Mum this morning, Granny? Do you think she'll enjoy the surprise?" He didn’t wait for her reply, but stood and went to the phone.

Elizabeth picked up momentarily, her voice undeniably lighter when she heard that her son had chosen to call out of the blue.

Irakli tried to make small talk before ambushing her with his decision, but he was too excited by the idea to wait long.

"Mum, I'm going to come and see you and Dad. Not this weekend, but soon, ok?"

He held his breath as she went silent.

After a pause, in a very small voice, she asked, "Have you...have you, you know, are you better now?"

He closed his eyes and clenched his jaw as he sought the patience to answer her. "Mum, I'm just coming back for a day or something. One night at most. I just want to see Dad while I still can."

She made a small sound, like she was stifling a sob - or a hiccup - and said nothing, so Irakli rushed to press his point.

"I miss you. I'll come back just for you guys, I don't need to see anyone else or go anywhere. Just for a day, Mum, who's even going to notice?"

She was crying now - he could hear the muffled noises, the keening beginning in her throat.

The sound was like a fist around Irakli's heart. He shushed her gently and murmured, "Don't, Mum..."

Eventually, she took a shaky breath and said, "I would like that. I would like to see you."

"No priests this time, Mum," he told her kindly.

She had to draw another gasping lungful of air before she could speak, and murmured agreement. "No, no. But tell me when you're coming. I’ll buy good walnuts and make your favourite meal."

His eyes stung and he squeezed them shut again, turning away from the kitchen towards the wall. He smiled and said they would make it together, and listened while his mother tried to compose herself through happy tears.

"Tell me how he's doing, Mum," Irakli encouraged her, and listened to her answers, already imagining himself at home.


	67. Chapter 67

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Update schedule? What update schedule?
> 
> Please accept this humble offering of fluff, angst, and lots of cuddling. A few chapters going up tonight, these ones are for the fans of sickfic.
> 
> Also! You may recognise the music video described in this chapter. I don't think the dancer himself in the video is good inspiration at all, nor do I think Merab would think of him as such - whatever the pressurised and strange circumstances of his youth, that guy has horrendous politics. I think the dance in the video itself is amazing though, and I am not very knowledgeable about contemporary ballet set to massively popular pop hits, so...send me alternatives if you have them! Or maybe I'll edit that bit out at the next update, it makes me uneasy to have him associated with the fic at all. My bad, when I wrote it I hadn't realised all he'd said. Research fail!

Merab was exhausted, and all he'd done was get up to find his charger and plug his laptop in. He clutched the bedcovers around himself and grimaced, trying to get comfortable with his laptop on his knees and the sofa arm digging into his back. His skin was clammy and breathing was an effort; he felt cold and his body ached, no matter how he arranged himself in the blankets. He’d had a worsening cough the whole week, and since the fire it had settled into a weight on his chest that was accompanied by fever and a sluggishness of mind and body.

His phone was out of credit and he couldn't see how he'd get himself down to the street to top it up. It had cut out partway through a call with Irakli, and Merab couldn't even answer the worried text that had followed. In frustration, he'd kicked it under the coffee table, and then he'd not been able to reach it in time when Irakli had called him back. He stewed, angry at his own impulsive stupidity, and shuffled deeper into the blankets. He held the phone in his hand now, and switched the screen on every minute in case he'd somehow missed a call. He fiddled nervously with his necklace, scarcely attention to the film playing on his laptop.

Merab had been stuck in the cold little flat for over a day, and it was the longest he ever remembered being so inactive. He railed against the boredom of it, but he'd found out quickly enough that any attempts to use the time productively were doomed - he got dizzy when he stood up, before he could even attempt a spin, and the slow, calming breaths he would usually take as he stretched just aggravated the deep-set cough that had dogged him for half the week already.

When there was a knock at the door, he groaned and coughed into the edge of his blankets. His joints ached and he knew the air of the flat would feel cold against his body if he got up.

He stared across the gloomy space at the door. Surely it couldn't be anything important - anyone who wanted Ioseb knew to find him at the market. It was probably just someone from the electricity board or something. Let them come back on Monday, Merab thought.

After a moment they knocked again, and Merab's jaw tightened. They were already trying again a third time as he swore and pushed his laptop off his legs and began to untangle himself from the covers.

"Coming..." He tried to call, but the word was lost in a coughing fit. He stood slowly and inched across the room, feeling the chill of the bare floor through his socks, wrapping his hoodie tightly around himself, though he could not find the energy to concentrate on doing up the zip.

He opened the door with a squint prepared against the bright corridor, intending to make whoever was there feel as guilty as possible about making him get up.

Instead, he started coughing again in surprise, and had to be gently guided back into the flat as Irakli slipped in through the door and closed it behind him.

He stared at Merab with a muted expression of alarm as Merab coughed, then looked around the flat swiftly before bringing his arms around Merab, rubbing his cold back and supporting him through each shuddering, racking cough.

"What are - what - what are you doing here?" Merab struggled to ask him.

Reluctantly, Irakli released him in order to shrug off his flannel jacket. He brandished a plastic bag and said cagily, "Thought you might need some stuff." He was avoiding Merab's eyes and doing a bad job of hiding his worry.

Merab made a sound of mild curiosity. He felt himself filling up with questions, like his body had started to fill with warmth again when Irakli had held him and ran his hands over his back and shoulders. He was trying to decide what to ask him first, but Irakli gestured to the sitting room where Merab's dishevelled sickbed was.

"Oh, yeah, welcome." Merab looked around the little flat and winced. He'd had the lights off because he'd been too tired to get up and switch them on, and the space looked dark and miserable. The daylight from the window by the narrow, cluttered balcony was pale and cold, lending a grey pallor to the bare lino floor, the old furniture and peeling, damp-stained walls. The only colour came from Merab's bedding - light yellow sheets and patterned blankets that lay twisted on the sofa and half-dragged across the floor.

He led Irakli into the room and shrugged, turning, about to ask him how he'd found the place.

But the soft touch of Irakli's hands on his shoulders silenced Merab, along with the expression of gentle sorrow he wore. Irakli guided Merab towards the sofa and bent to pick the blankets off the floor. He was so quiet and so solemn that Merab sat down as indicated and took the covers without saying anything.

Irakli noticed that he was wearing his old t-shirt and a smile finally broke through the concern on his features. He leaned down to fuss with the blankets and wrap them securely around Merab's shoulders, and when he came close enough, Merab pressed his lips to Irakli's mouth to show his gratitude.

He was insistent enough that Irakli's smile broadened beneath his kiss, even as he carefully laid a hand against Merab's forehead to check his temperature.

Irakli sat back on his heels, finally meeting Merab's eyes. "Have you had anything to eat?"

"Nah, I'm not hungry."

Irakli made a sound like he was unimpressed by this answer, and despite the fever, Merab felt himself blush guiltily from his chest to his hairline.

"Well, you should try. I brought some medicine, but I think you have to eat something first."

Merab curled his arms tight about his body, bringing the blankets with them. He peered at the bag Irakli had brought and frowned. "What medicine?"

Irakli handed him a packet from the bag, and Merab fought one hand free of the covers to take it and read the label. It was a decongestant, just something you could get over the counter, but nothing Merab would ever have thought to ask for.

"Oh. How did you know about this?"

Irakli was avoiding looking at him directly again as he stood up and arranged his jeans. He shrugged at the floor. "My dad used to use it."

Dumbstruck, Merab looked up at him, wondering if it was guilt he was meant to be feeling - guilt, instead of the warmth spreading through him that might have been sickness, or might have been gratitude, but was probably just love.

Irakli tried to laugh off the expression on Merab's face. "Akh, come on, you think I don't know a chest infection when I hear one?"

He moved to the tiny corner counter and put the bag he'd brought on it. He eyed the cupboards and fridge speculatively.

Merab chewed his cuticles and looked at the form of Irakli's body as he leaned on the counter: his broad, evenly squared shoulders, the muscles in his legs, their shape visible through his fitted jeans, and the subtle narrowing around his waist where his top hung loose. Merab surveyed the naïve crush he'd had last summer and praised his former self for his impeccable taste - Irakli had a languid, gorgeous way of moving that always overrode any jealousy Merab might have had about his dancing form. Once you knew how soft his touch could be, how gentle the feeling of his kisses was on ticklish skin, or how soothing the feeling of his hands on your back was - well, then you didn't worry about the protective swagger or clenched jaw.

"Thanks," Merab murmured at last. He still wasn't hungry, but as Irakli had gone to the effort of buying medicine and bringing it to him... "I think there's some ramen in that cupboard." He indicated the unit by the fridge and Irakli reached out to open the door.

At last, the laugh Irakli let out sounded almost entirely genuine as he pushed the packets in the cupboard aside: "Ramen and brandy - a balanced diet?"

Merab grinned, half hiding his smile in the covers as he drew his knees up to his chest. "Something like that."

Irakli pulled a packet of noodles out of the cupboard and filled the kettle. He started to take things from the bag he'd brought and Merab watched with cagey curiosity, his eyes wide and interested, his mouth tucked inside the blankets as he gnawed restlessly on his lips. A collection of citrus fruit emerged, and a jar of honey.

Irakli faced the peeling wall by the kettle, but Merab stared at his back relentlessly.

Finally, the question burst from him: "How did you find the address?"

With a sigh, Irakli half-glanced over his shoulder. He spoke quickly, as though he wished he could lie about it but wasn't able to. "I called David, got it from him."

" _David_?" Merab repeated.

Finally, Irakli leaned a hip against the counter and twisted to look in Merab's direction, though his eyes were still restless. "After I called you back and you didn't pick up. I just thought I should make sure things were ok..."

Merab chewed his lip guiltily. "Yeah. Sorry. I just didn't get to my phone in time. I'm out of credit."

His phone had been in his hand moments before Irakli had called back - he'd just flung it across the room in a fit of pique. If Irakli realised what a ridiculous excuse this was, he said nothing.

"What did you say to David?" Merab murmured.

"Mm? Akh, nothing, just that I needed to drop something round."

The kettle boiled and Irakli poured the water over a nest of noodles he'd placed in a bowl from the drying rack.

Merab found his subdued attitude more perplexing than ever and shifted on the couch, trying to get comfortable while his eyes bored into the back of Irakli's neck. "But did you tell him? About us?"

Irakli dropped his head, and Merab saw the colour rise to his skin. There was a smile in his voice when he said, "Yeah, I guess he knows now," but it didn't fully reassure Merab.

"Did he give you shit for it? He wasn't like that with me at all." The warmth of David's response still surprised him when he thought about it.

Neither of the brothers talked about it, but the moment was always present between them now, drawing new borders around play-fights and disputes. David wasn't right about everything, but Merab knew that he loved him, and that was, ultimately, worth the endless pestering about what he was going to do with his life.

But maybe David wasn't like that with Irakli - he didn't see the sweetness Merab saw beneath the macho posturing, or the vulnerability in his eyes when he held Merab close. David loved his little brother, but he still figured that Merab had always been different - he'd never have said the same thing about Irakli.

Irakli stirred the ramen and itched his face with his free hand - a nervous gesture that Merab recognised with a wave of familiarity that made his throat tighten.

But Irakli just said, "Nah, not really. He's just looking out for you. Probably thinks I'm a bad influence..."

He turned with a smile that succeeded in lighting up his eyes, and Merab felt warm when he saw it. He moved his laptop so that Irakli could sit next to him, and accepted the bowl of food gingerly.

With mischief in his voice, Merab glanced sideways at Irakli. "Maybe he's just mad you didn't go and ask his permission to court me first."

Irakli laughed too, and he finally looked at Merab with a steady gaze. It wasn't too much to hope for to call it a loving gaze, and it made Merab grin and blush and then laugh until he coughed.

One of Irakli's warm palms spread soothing circles over his shoulders until the episode passed, his other hand helped Merab hold the hot bowl steady in his lap. Then Merab picked at the bowl of noodles while Irakli waited close by, an anxious sentinel. He oversaw the taking of the medicine and fastidiously removed the empty bowl when Merab had finished with it, and it just made Merab want to laugh even more because Irakli fussed so quietly and relentlessly.

He actually felt good after eating, too full maybe, but less dizzy and nauseous than he'd been. He curled up against Irakli with a contented noise in his throat and nuzzled into his chest. For a moment, Irakli held him close, his arm around his shoulders, his jaw in Merab's hair. Merab closed his eyes and concentrated on the feeling of Irakli's chest moving beneath his cheek. He could have fallen asleep there quite quickly, if only he hadn't started coughing again.

To Merab's regret, Irakli's arm moved and he guided him to sit up.

"Sorry, that was nice, but you should be upright," Irakli told him.

He looked around the room and nodded at the high-backed armchair facing the TV. "Why don't you try that chair?"

Merab pouted at it and clutched the blankets tightly around himself. The other side of the room looked cold and dark. The chair was not big enough to share, and he cleaved to the warmth of Irakli's body.

"Nah, that's my dad's chair," he said, as though he wasn't even permitted to sit in it.

"Ah, hm." There was the hint of a smile at the corner of Irakli's lips, a suffused sparkle of amusement in his eyes. He stood up and Merab watched him regretfully, but Irakli encouraged him to move up on the couch. He dug the thin, crushed pillows out of the corner of Merab's bed that they'd been lost in and arranged them against the arm of the couch.

Irakli slipped his shoes off and climbed into the space Merab had made, his back against the pillows, and beckoned Merab to come and sit between his legs.

Wearing a coy grin, Merab shuffled up close to him, his back against Irakli's chest.

Irakli's legs tightened against each side of him and his arms enfolded Merab's body. He buried his face in the collars of Merab's tops, releasing a sigh against his skin and tightening his hold.

The feeling was delicious. Merab closed his eyes and leaned his head against Irakli's, his smile broad enough to make his cheeks ache.

With his voice muffled against Merab's neck, Irakli asked, "Were you watching something?"

"Nah." Merab stifled a cough, impatient for the medicine to kick in and take effect. "Not really."

He reached for his laptop and pressed the keyboard to wake the screen. As well as the window in which he'd been not-watching a film, he had a series of tabs open with videos of dances, each one potentially inspiration for the composition he was meant to be working on.

Irakli made a sound of interest and his arms, snaking beneath Merab's, reached for the computer. His fingers moved over the trackpad before Merab could close the browser and he clicked on one of the videos.

"I know this song..." Irakli murmured, his face warm against Merab's neck, the stubble on his cheek rough on his skin.

It was a popular song; it wasn't a surprise that Irakli knew it, but Merab felt himself blush at sharing one of his favourite compositions with Irakli. In an empty, sunlit building, a tattooed dancer leapt and stretched to the music. His plain shorts and shoes matched his skin tone and the lighting made every muscle in his body visible, every flex and every ounce of strength and effort tangible, though the grace of his movements appeared to be as natural as drawing breath. Watching him made Merab's mouth dry, made him restless with the need to move his own body, to try and match those poses, that fluidity, the height of those jumps.

Irakli sang along with the music, his throat vibrating against Merab's skin. Occasionally he paused to take a sharp breath and murmur, "Wow," at one of the dancer's leaps.

When the video finished, Merab wordlessly pushed Irakli's fingers off the edge of the laptop and opened a new tab. He only had to enter a couple of letters before the predicted address came up: the website for the academy.

With Irakli's arms once more wrapped close around him, Merab told him, as casually as he could, that he was planning to apply, and scrolled down through their recent posts to the call for summer applicants.

He felt Irakli's face move against his neck as he shifted to read the post.

When he said, "Great!" Merab clenched his jaw and closed his eyes.

"It looks really good," Irakli added.

Merab coughed and swallowed nervously, looking away from Irakli, away from the laptop screen.

"I need to put together a routine," he said.

When Irakli didn't press for more information, Merab shifted awkwardly against him. Quickly, feeling the words drawn almost involuntarily from his mouth, he muttered, "It's not because of what you said. I wanted to do this anyway. I just have to come up with something."

Irakli made another of those quiet, accepting sounds he had - a mild expression of interest, careful enough not to sound too enthusiastic or too hesitant. His hands stroked the curves of Merab's ribcage, fingers drawing patterns in fabric that traced the structure of muscle and bone beneath. It felt to Merab like Irakli had memorised his form, and that by redrawing the lines of his body with his fingertips he rebuilt his strength, one sweeping touch at a time.

"Tell me about it," Irakli encouraged him at last. "What are you thinking of?"

Merab sighed and settled against him, clicking back to another tab. He showed Irakli one video and then another, and another, demonstrating how jumbled his inspiration had become and how tangled up his thoughts were.

Irakli listened to it all, and gradually Merab talked some of his ideas into a shape that made sense to him - he didn't know if it made sense to Irakli, but by now he felt sleepy from the food and the medicine and the warm body supporting him. The adrenaline that had come with sharing these thoughts, not knowing how Irakli would respond, had dissipated, and Merab couldn't believe he'd worried so much about it. He twisted in Irakli's arms and kissed him, his lips mapping out Irakli's smile greedily.

They spent the day on the couch, Merab sleeping propped against Irakli's chest. It was a deep and still sleep that he didn't fight against. When he woke up, Irakli was watching one of the films on his laptop, the volume too low to disturb Merab, his chin settled comfortably against Merab's head. Merab closed his eyes and nuzzled against him, and wished he could ignore the ache in his joints and the heavy, ticklish feeling building up in his chest again. He held off the burgeoning coughing fit for as long as he could, but as soon as it broke free of him, Irakli was business-like about making him sit up. He left the couch, and it made Merab feel cold and unsupported, but he was soon back in his place, bringing water and fruit with him.

Through the afternoon, Irakli peeled tangerines, his arms around Merab and the coils of fragrant skin falling into Merab's lap. Even though Merab was not hungry, he never refused the segments Irakli offered him, and took every opportunity to teasingly graze Irakli's fingers with his teeth. It made Irakli laugh and kiss his neck or run his hand back through Merab's disordered hair.

By the time he left, Merab might have imagined the flat was their own. Irakli had taken Merab's phone down to the booth at the end of the street to top it up. He tidied away the tangerine peel and glasses that had had hot lemon and honey in them. He washed the bowl he'd used for the ramen and prodded Merab to sit up against the back of the couch as he did up his jacket and prepared to leave.

Merab did so with a rebellious look in his eyes. He kept his hands tucked in his armpits, the blankets folded around his body, but he craned his neck to demand a kiss before Irakli left.

It was given freely, without question or hesitation.

"Will you come tomorrow?" Merab couldn't stop himself from asking - he couldn't imagine how he would sleep without Irakli's warmth next to him, what he'd do without that other, attentive presence in the room.

Irakli blinked, maybe surprised that he'd asked. But he nodded and granted Merab one last peck on the lips as he went. "I'll come round late morning." At the door, seemingly as an afterthought - though Merab now knew that far more consideration went into Irakli's deeds than he liked to let on - Irakli turned and added. "You can text if there's anything else you need, yeah?"

Merab bit his lip and nodded. He almost said _Just you_ , but held onto the words at the last minute.

The gust of cold air that barged inside when Irakli left seemed to linger in the flat. Merab stared blindly at the dark room, toying with his necklace and losing himself in thoughts of dance, in memories of the feeling of Irakli's body so close to his all day, of the easy ways they moved around each other and of all the things that Irakli's careful gestures could mean.

Merab had been in love before. Head over heels, floating off the ground, not a care in the world love. Apocalyptic, nothing else existing, physically devastated love. He'd tried so hard to learn how to be careful, to remember that when one was floating things could quickly get out of control, and before you knew it, you'd be gasping in the upper atmosphere, all sense of perspective inverted. He poked carefully at the bruising in his heart and diagnosed himself as a fool who had let it happen again.

But he couldn't regret it. His lips tasted of tangerines and he felt rested; the tension that had been winding up inside him had eased, and he'd see Irakli again tomorrow. He actually dared to feel certain of it.

Mindful not to spend all his credit, Merab texted Mary back - she'd been worrying about him since the fire as well, so he told her he was being well looked after. Reluctantly, he admitted that he probably wouldn't be able to attend the rehearsal that week, and Mary just said she was amazed he'd admitted it so early.

When Ioseb got in, he switched the light on and grumbled that Merab had been too lazy to get up off the couch all day. He opened a new packet of cigarettes and paused over the bin as he dropped the cellophane wrapping in there. He checked the fridge and looked back at Merab with raised eyebrows.

"Oh, so you went out for fresh fruit, but didn't bring anything back for supper?"

Merab shrugged. "I was feeling too lazy."

Ioseb grunted. He reached out a hand to check the temperature of Merab's forehead, and Merab tossed his head away with a tut of annoyance.

His father looked down at him with his own aggravated scowl and spread his arms, a gesture that said, _What should I do then?_

"So you don't need a doctor? You're well enough to get to the shops and to give me trouble, hm?"

"I'm fine." Merab shrugged again and then coughed and Ioseb sighed.

He delayed lighting his cigarette until he went out onto the balcony and Merab watched him standing there looking out over the city. 

When Ioseb came back in, he surveyed Merab with the expression of concern that his son was tired of seeing. He smelt of tobacco, and it made Merab want a cigarette, but it also made him cough again uncomfortably.

Ioseb picked up the empty glass by Merab's bed and filled it with water. He also held out his hip flask until Merab shook his head and waved it away.

"My mother swore by vodka, you know," Ioseb said, taking a thoughtful sip himself. "Claimed it could cure anything."

"I know, you've told me," Merab grumbled as the coughing petered out.

Ioseb screwed the cap back on and looked down at Merab - his pose was too resigned, too exhausted to galvanise any enthusiasm, though the breath he drew threatened, briefly, to attempt it. "I was talking to Sandro. He has a nephew who can get you work experience in one of the banks downtown. It won't be long until you can register for a course then, and you'll have a head start."

"I don't need it," Merab sighed, drawing his knees up to his chest, the blankets around him.

"What do you mean? You saw what kind of place the market is this week, why would you want to stay there?" Ioseb's shoulders hunched; he gestured in open-palmed confusion at the room.

Merab rolled his eyes and chewed the inside of his lip. "I don't want to stay there. I'm not going to."

He could imagine the expression on his father's face so well: expectant but out of patience, always tired, always disappointed - with life or with Merab, who could tell the difference?

"I'm applying to the academy," he snapped at last.

Ioseb was silent for a moment, and then ran a hand back through his thin hair with a sigh. "Boy, what's this now?"

"The academy for contemporary dance. That's where I'm going."

"Are you? And who's paying your course fees?"

"I'll get a stipend." Merab bristled, glaring up at Ioseb.

Ioseb shook his head. "Don't you understand yet, boy? What do you want that life for?"

_That life_ , he said so confidently, as if Merab had known any other life.

After all those years, it had only taken a few months away from the ensemble for Merab to be certain that dancing was a part of him - just as familiar and reassuring an aspect of himself as the realisation that he loved Irakli had been last year. He didn't regret leaving the ensemble, but life without the drills and the routines of practice was drifting, aimless. Often fun - but persistently hollow, except when he was with Irakli.

He just raised his shoulders to his ears again and hunched deeper into the blankets. "I don't care, you've already told me..."

Ioseb stood still and silent, and Merab determinedly avoided looking at him. It meant his father was able to catch him off-guard and lay a rough palm over Merab's forehead before, cursing, Merab shook him off.

"Your temperature has dropped..."

"I know, thanks."

To Merab's chagrin, Ioseb remained by his bedside, staring down at him thoughtfully. "I spoke to Aleko, you know. About the audition. He told me what happened."

What _the fuck_ did that mean? Merab did his best not to move or react, but his jaw locked tight shut and he felt like an ice cube had slipped down the back of his top. His gaze, unfocussed, remained a few feet to the side of his father.

It was only when Ioseb continued that he was able to release the breath he'd held.

Ioseb's voice was as gentle as it ever got, deep and conciliatory. "I know you can dance, boy. I just don't think you know what kind of world it is - just because it's with a different troupe, doesn't mean it's going to be an easier life."

He couldn't help it - there was a thread of logic there that drew his attention irresistibly up to his father's face. Buried beneath Ioseb's attempts to dissuade him lay the insinuation that Aleko had convinced Ioseb that Merab could, in fact, dance well. Or at least that was the implication that Merab chose to hope was real.

But it would be so needy of him to ask for confirmation of that. His pride wouldn't allow it. Instead, Merab grumbled, "When did I ask for an easy life?"

Grudging amusement shone in his father's eyes at that, and with it an echo of the respect that Merab had occasionally won from him on the market. There, he'd detected his father's satisfaction only when he had responded to another vendor's cheek with wit and speed, or when he’d succeeded at a task Ioseb had expected him to fail at immediately.

It was always acts of strength and endurance. That was what Ioseb respected. But he had a narrow idea of what constituted strength, of what might need to be endured.

"Your generation knows nothing of hardship, boy," Ioseb reminded him in familiar terms. He turned from the bed, a lecture on his lips about how things had been, and Merab let himself lean back against the couch, his eyes closed, wishing that behind him was Irakli's firm body instead of the ancient, formless cushions.


	68. Chapter 68

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A hint of smut crept in. And yes, I do feel guilty about giving Merab a horrible case of flu. But as it is a catalyst for caretaker Irakli, I'm afraid I have no regrets...

Merab had great plans when he woke early on Sunday. He was full of energy, convinced that one day's care and medication had set him right, and he was on the way back to full health. Before his father had even left for the market, he sat in the dark living room watching dance videos and piecing together ideas in his mind.

His cough had returned by the time Ioseb was leaving and though it felt looser than it had been, Merab's chest still hurt with each deep, heaving movement.

Ioseb looked at him and then around the little room. He grunted with displeasure. "Boy, do you want anything?"

Merab shook his head. He wanted Ioseb to leave so that he could look forward to Irakli's arrival. He'd texted him already, and he knew he was on his way.

Ioseb seemed to find unnecessary reasons to hang around, picking at the peeling wallpaper as he finished his tea and muttering at the newspaper report of the fire. Merab watched him, willing him to leave, and once he'd gone, he texted Irakli to let him know.

As soon as Ioseb was out of the flat, Merab got up and tidied what he could. He made himself eat something from the leftovers Ioseb had put in the fridge the previous night and took some of the decongestant Irakli had brought. Feeling pleased, like he'd done enough to assure Irakli he was taking care of himself, he paced over to the window and peered down at the street - eighteen floors away - and wondered whether he would recognise those square shoulders, that swaggering walk, from above.

He gnawed on his nails and wondered if he had the strength to practise any moves that day. He worried about how weak he'd get if he spent too many days unable to stretch and dance – things he'd done practically every day of his life since he'd begun training.

He kind of wanted a cigarette, but the thought of it burning against the rawness of his throat and lungs made him grimace. He paced around the room again and opened his laptop to watch some videos and try out some moves.

He hadn't got further than realising that forward folds still made him dizzy when there was a quiet tap on the door.

He practically sprinted across the flat and arrived to open the door in a storm of coughing. The fresh air cooled the sweat beading at his hairline and seemed to skewer his lungs with its sharpness.

Irakli ducked inside with a horrified expression and held Merab's shoulders until the fit had passed.

"It's ok, I'm ok," Merab gasped, trying to reassure him, wanting to put this vulnerability behind him already, to be able to elicit expressions beyond pity from Irakli once more. His plans for the morning had, after all, involved more than talking about dance and watching films together.

But he didn't resist when Irakli pressed his palm to his forehead to test his temperature, nor when Irakli pressed his lips to the clammy skin instead and ran a hand over Merab's arm and shoulder, travelling smoothly up to cup his jaw. Instead, Merab leaned into him, looking up with a very simple request in his eyes.

Irakli could never say no to that request, and it always brought colour to his face when he looked in Merab's eyes. He placed soft kisses on Merab's lips and on his cheek and jaw, and he murmured that he hoped Merab had slept well and was feeling somewhat better.

Merab asserted that he was, letting his body weight fall full against Irakli. He kissed him back, ignoring the ticklish feeling building in his throat for as long as possible, and then muffled his coughs in Irakli's jacket.

Irakli cupped the back of his head and laughed quietly.

"I brought fresh lobiani. I thought it might make a change from ramen...Shall I make some tea?"

Merab fought his cough into submission. His chest hurt and it made his eyes water, and he imagined that only Irakli's touch could help him to ignore the discomfort.

He nuzzled into Irakli's neck. "Actually, I think I should probably have a shower..."

He could feel the moment when Irakli caught the implication of his words: his fingers ceased their movements through the back of Merab's hair and he swallowed in surprise.

"Oh yeah? You must be feeling better..." he responded with a chuckle as Merab began to kiss his neck.

Merab dreamed of taking off each item of Irakli's clothing and leaving it where it fell, in colourful heaps on the floor - just like couples did in films. If their actions didn't work out quite like that because Irakli paused to hang his jacket by the door, to put the bag he'd brought down on the sofa, to keep looking at Merab with concern when the cough interrupted their touches - then it was near enough to the dream to satisfy him for now.

He backed Irakli into the little bathroom, repressing a shiver at the temperature of the tile floor on his bare feet and wrapping his arms around Irakli's waist to bring their naked skin close together, to share warmth and battle off the chill of the small room.

Merab ran the water until it was hot - they waited for the temperature to increase, standing beside the shower, and Merab let himself be enveloped by Irakli's arms, by his kisses that plumbed the hollows around Merab's collarbones and throat, his hands under Merab's arse, pulling his hips up, pulling him against Irakli’s body. It made his throat itch drily, but Merab threw his head back to invite Irakli's kisses up his neck, and he let out a laugh of surprise when Irakli hoisted his body up and lifted Merab into the shower, beneath the stream of hot water.

For a few moments, it was perfect.

The awareness of Irakli's strength beneath him, his legs bracing Merab's weight and his biceps and shoulders tightening as he lifted him, made Merab gasp. He squeezed his own thighs around Irakli's waist and steadied their bodies with a palm against the tiled wall as he bent his face to kiss Irakli thirstily. The shower water hit the back of his neck and ran warm down his shoulder blades and over his chest, splashing off him to catch, bead-like, in the black hair on Irakli's chest. As Irakli took another step to pin Merab against the shower wall, they moved beneath the water, its stream passing through Merab's hair, covering their faces and kisses and making Irakli laugh as it got in his eyes.

Then, with his back to the cool tiles, Merab's cough returned and he couldn't repress it, no matter how hard he tried. He leaned his head into Irakli's shoulder and felt Irakli's grip on his body change, felt him turn gentle as he lowered Merab, supporting him until he was standing again.

It had been perfect for a few moments, and then it became perfect again, in a way Merab hadn't anticipated. Irakli turned Merab away from him and Merab felt his palms on his back, warm as the water, sweeping soap over his skin. His hands in Merab's hair massaged shampoo against all the contours of his scalp. Merab still coughed disconsolately, but when he did, his shoulders slack and his expression a miserable grimace into the shower water, Irakli murmured sympathetic sounds against his ear or his neck or his shoulder and kissed his clean skin.

All wasn't lost - when Merab leaned needily back against him, he felt Irakli's cock hard against his arse, and the hand that had been in his hair travelled down Merab's side and around to the front of his body. Irakli's fingertips grazed along the centre line of Merab's belly, down through the fine, wet hairs to take hold of Merab's erection. His hand began to move with firm, even strokes.

Merab pushed his body against Irakli's, his eyes closed and head tilted back again.

Irakli's teeth and lips marked his shoulder, then turned to soft kisses whenever Merab coughed. Throughout, his rhythm didn't waver, and Merab flexed his own empty hands by his sides, only reaching back to grab Irakli's thighs when he felt the pressure in the pit of his groin building to a rolling, fizzing sweetness.

His moan was hidden by the sound of the shower, but he heard Irakli's own hiss of satisfaction because his mouth was at Merab's ear, his lips hot and smooth on the lobe.

When he'd swallowed down the feeling like he was going to cough, and his legs stopped feeling like liquid, like they were being washed away with the water circling the drain, Merab turned as quickly as he could in Irakli arms, his hand seeking to return the favour.

Irakli's kisses were slippery beneath the shower water, but his arm around Merab's shoulders was a firm line holding him close as Merab's hand moved up and down his cock determinedly. It was as different as Merab could imagine from their first, frantic night together - that unsentimental pleasure stolen before either of them could question what they were doing, the emptiness Merab had been left with when Irakli's touch hadn't offered anything but swift gratification.

Now, he made small noises of appreciation against Merab's lips, his hips thrust rhythmically with the movement of Merab's hand, and when he came, he swore in Merab's mouth, his groan tapering off into muttered words against Merab's cheek.

Merab didn't catch much beyond "fuck, you're good," but that was already more than enough.

If he hadn't thought it would freak Irakli out, make him clam up and withdraw to one of his anxious, awkward silences, Merab would have told him then, in return, that he loved him. Instead, he laughed and stifled a cough and nipped Irakli's neck playfully. "Just wait till I'm better..."

Irakli laughed, his cheeks pink from the hot water, the hormones, and the look in Merab's eyes. He didn't seem to know what to say in response - Merab wondered if he'd ever seen Irakli speechless before - and reached for the soap again to wash himself.

Merab was content to admire him for a moment, watching the lather form patterns on this body, but it wasn’t long before he had to offer his help.

In the films, no one ever seemed to bother picking their cold, crumpled clothes off the dusty floor, but Merab shivered back into his jeans and hoodie when they finally emerged from the shower. Steam hung just below the ceiling in the small living room and Merab's wet hair left him feeling chilled. He was already tired from the busy morning - his limbs felt heavy, his eyelids leaden, his chest stuffy and tight.

Then again, those couples in the films had huge, white-sheeted beds to go to, while Merab fidgeted with a sigh against the uncomfortable old cushions on the sofa and watched Irakli prepare glasses of warm lemon and honey.

As Irakli sat down with him - the soft cushions sank and shifted around his weight, encouraging Merab to lean in closer - he looked over at Merab's laptop on the coffee table. It was facing away from the sofa, and Irakli's eyebrow twitched with curiosity.

"Been practising this morning?"

Merab took a glass from him and said only, "Mm." Then, after a minute under Irakli's sceptical eye, he sighed again. "I was going to. I've got ideas for the academy now, but I don't know how they'll fit together."

Irakli shook his head, and though he was smiling, Merab thought that the worry in his eyes was turning to exasperation. "When were you last sick?"

Merab shrugged, and only thought about it when Irakli prompted him. Dim memories of candle-light and playing shadow-puppets with his mother drifted by - David had had chickenpox and Merab had caught it after him. He'd felt rotten, and his mother had had to work non-stop to keep him distracted, to stop him from itching and complaining. He'd practically thrown tantrums when she'd tried to do anything else, and the recollection made him cringe with guilt.

"It's been a while," he said grudgingly.

Irakli smiled at him, and Merab tried not to be annoyed at the feeling he was being laughed at.

Shoving the embarrassing suspicion aside, he tried to explain the moves he'd been practicing to Irakli, but was as frustrated as he'd been just trying to imagine them in his own mind. Eventually, Irakli stood up and laughed and told Merab to describe it so he could demonstrate for him. Merab hesitated, uncertain about seeing his own ideas performed by someone who he'd consistently been told was better than him, but Irakli's grin was all encouragement; there was no competitiveness in the way he gestured to Merab.

He moved the coffee table aside for space and performed a few quick stretches, and Merab wasn't too proud to enjoy watching him.

Irakli tried his best to follow Merab's instructions, and wouldn't let Merab get up and help him - "No, you look really pale, you need to rest..." - so he almost ended up tripping over the coffee table, and Merab laughed so hard at his efforts that he couldn't breathe for coughing afterwards.

It was all the confirmation he'd needed that what he wanted to do at the academy was not the same as traditional dance after all.

Irakli hovered nearby as he coughed, but when he could, Merab thanked him for his help and leaned into him, burying his satisfied smirk against Irakli's top.

They ate the lobiani Irakli had brought and drew the coffee table near, turning the laptop to face them. Merab settled between Irakli's legs in the position they'd sat in the day before. He'd barely heard the opening music of the film they'd chosen before he fell asleep with his forehead against Irakli's jaw. With Irakli's arms and the blankets about his body, he felt as secure and as content as he thought he'd ever been.


	69. Chapter 69

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the last of the updates today, but I hope the next few chapters will be up soon. All my love to those who drop by to read or comment or skim a paragraph or two - and my eternal thanks to Katherine for beta-reading.

Irakli was staring at the laptop screen, but he couldn't have told anyone what the film was about. His thoughts were lost to the steady rhythm of Merab's breathing, to the warmth and weight of his body and to the smell of his hair - now intimately associated with memories of earlier, when he'd watched his own hands bringing shampoo to a lather in those soft cowlicks.

He'd thought yesterday that this need he was overcome with, the need to ensure Merab was taking care of himself, was just displaced worry for his parents. Now, he knew better - that might have been part of it, but that didn't explain the impulse Irakli had felt in the shower, to simply share the experience of washing, to discover what Merab's body felt like beneath soap and water and to stay with him until they were both clean. He was amazed at himself when he thought about it, like he'd been amazed in the wake of those two nights up at the vineyard.

Had he ever wanted such things before, with anyone else?

Irakli cringed when he recalled how he'd been unable to give a clear answer after David had asked him so bluntly and directly, "Is it serious? With you two?"

He hadn't been angry, but protective, like he'd been trying to reason with Irakli man to man - like he'd assumed, still, that Irakli had one foot on the road already.

Irakli hadn't been able to work out if David thought he wasn't worthy of Merab, or if he thought Merab wasn't enough to hold Irakli's attention. Either possibility had stung enough that Irakli had finally snapped: "Look, I care for him, ok?" and David had been too stunned to do anything but relay Ioseb's address.

The delicate balance Irakli had identified in his happiness during the past weeks had already shifted - he'd stopped thinking of the future as a foreign country he'd never visit, and instead he'd caught himself hoping for things. Hoping his trip back home went well; hoping for some closure from seeing his father again. Hoping his mother would just let him be happy to be with her, that she wouldn't talk about what had happened and why he'd left. Hoping that Merab got the place at the academy he longed for; hoping that somehow, somewhere along the way, an opportunity would present itself and let them carve out more space for themselves, together. It left him feeling tender, vulnerable and almost physically sore - there was always something he wanted now, and thinking about how to get it was fraught with impossibilities.

Merab slept soundly, though now and then he coughed and complained sleepily when Irakli shifted to get him sitting more upright again. Without even thinking about it, Irakli smoothed his hair and nuzzled his temple with kisses, and Merab smiled.

In between these moments, Irakli sat in a daze of emotion, his jaw tight as he tried to stop his thoughts from running around in circles over futures he couldn't have.

"The film's finished..." Merab murmured at some point, turning his head against Irakli's chin.

"Hm?"

Delighted mischief in his tone, Merab looked up at him. "Were you asleep?"

"No..." Irakli laughed.

Merab settled against his body with a weak cough, and Irakli brought his back as close to his chest as he could.

"Do you remember when you fell asleep on me at the back of the bus?" Merab asked leadingly.

God, he'd been drunk. Drunk enough to say a whole load of things that he only half-recalled, but suspected had not been as subtle as he'd thought they were.

"Nah, I don't remember...I was asleep," he teased, and enjoyed the feeling of Merab's laughter in his arms.

To prove how rested he felt, Merab wriggled in his grip and twisted to kiss him, one hand reaching up to Irakli's cheek, his palm warm and soft. "It was sweet," Merab told him boldly and kissed him again so he didn't have to respond. "You barely snored!"

With incredulous laughter, Irakli got up to make them tea. When he returned with a pair of steaming glasses, they sat side by side, Irakli ostensibly pondering his fantasy football team as Merab watched the laptop screen over his shoulder, leaning into him, his tea held between his knees.

Whenever he moved, Irakli smelt the soap and the shampoo they'd used together and it gave him the same feeling of peace and comfort he used to get from the detergent his mother used - Merab smelt like home.

Taking a deep breath, keeping his eyes on the screen like it was nothing, Irakli admitted, "I'm thinking of going back to Batumi. Just for a weekend, really." He tried not to gabble, but couldn't stop himself from glancing to his side. He couldn't see Merab's expression easily as he leaned against him, so he added nervously, "Two days at most, I swear. I need to see my Dad."

Merab didn't move, just made a sound like "Mm," and then his head shifted as though he was studying Irakli in turn.  
Irakli kept his eyes on the laptop screen.  
"Has something happened?"

With a sigh, Irakli closed the laptop and his eyes. He sat back, bringing his tea with him, and Merab didn't follow him, but stayed sitting up. Irakli could imagine the look on his face: thirsty for more information, restless at any sign of uncertainty.

He ran a hand over his face. "No, no. Not with him, nothing new. I guess I just...realised I'd never really said goodbye."

Merab came to him again, nestling beneath his arm, resting his tea glass on Irakli's thigh. When he spoke, his voice was very soft. "Will it be ok to go back? Will you be safe?"

Irakli was surprised at the effect the question had on him. He felt warm and his eyes stung with sudden persistence, and he reeled at how brittle and fragile his composure was.

Blinking, he struggled for a reassuring response. He couldn't joke in answer to that. He couldn't even imagine how. "Yeah. I think so. People have moved on. Mum's...she seems ok with me visiting. Guess she misses me enough or something." His smile was hesitant and Merab cuddled in closer to him.

"Mm."

Irakli took a few deep gulps of tea and drove thoughts of walking through hostile streets from his mind with bloody-minded bravura.

He regrouped his emotions and shouldered Merab lightly. "Will you miss me?"

Merab turned his face away, but Irakli saw his features scrunch up with amusement - both genuine and exasperated - which won out despite his attempt to hide it. By the time he looked back up at Irakli, he'd battled his expression into a semblance of nonchalance. "Pff. For a weekend? Nah. It'll be nice to have some space."

"Ah," Irakli laughed.

He sipped his tea, supposing that the conversation had gone well and was now finished, and neglected to stop himself from asking Merab, "Do you like baklava?"

He'd been letting himself think about Batumi, and the places he'd allow himself to actually miss when the city no longer felt like a threatening force in his life. Places he'd want to take Merab to.

Red hair like spun sugar and pistachio green in his eyes - that was why Irakli thought of the local baklava sellers, surely, not because of some sentimental equation of Merab's sweetness to the pastry....

Merab just shrugged at the question and regarded Irakli with heavily lidded eyes, his expression playful, his gaze fixed on Irakli's lips. "I guess...why?"

He wouldn't feed that smugness, he would not...Irakli kissed him, thinking of baklava again, and tasted Merab's tea-spiced mouth with relish.

"No reason," he told Merab, who eyed him knowingly and smiled.

After a moment to drink his tea and cough as he tried to find a more comfortable way of leaning against Irakli and drinking at the same time, Merab looked up again.

"What about your granny?"

"What about her?"

Merab studied him before responding, his eyes wide and guileless. "Will she be ok on her own?"

Irakli smiled, finding Merab's concern perplexing and endearing. With the arm that was wrapped around Merab's shoulders, he stretched his fingers into Merab's hair, ruffling the strands away from his forehead and making him scrunch his nose. "The neighbours upstairs usually check in on her."

"Oh," said Merab.

Irakli's curiosity was piqued by his tone, and he grinned. "'Oh', oh?"

Merab sipped his tea and unexpected relief flooded Irakli's nerves when he saw that the sickly pallor had been driven from his face. The skin on those sculpted cheekbones was a little pink and Merab shrugged minutely at his drink. "I was just thinking I could visit before my shifts at the bar. She recognises me now and I can do any shopping she needs."

Irakli blinked down at the top of his head. If they'd not had the glasses of tea in their hands, he'd have enveloped Merab in a grateful hug, soothing the sting of emotion he felt in his sinuses and burying his face in Merab's hair, rocking him a little to sooth himself.

He'd never have thought to ask him to do something like that. He'd never have assumed or presumed or even imagined it was possible to ask for it. But at the thought of how well Merab and his grandmother got on, the way she remembered his visits and spoke so cheerfully of him, Irakli felt a tide of love for both of them overwhelm him.

He pulled Merab against his body so that he wouldn't be able to see the discomposure on his face and swallowed before he was able to answer. "Yeah? I think she'd like that."

Merab snuggled happily into his hold. "Then I'll do it."

**Author's Note:**

> For LGBT+ lives in the Caucasus check out [OC Media](https://oc-media.org/), [The Calvert Journal](https://www.calvertjournal.com/) and [Chai Khana](https://chai-khana.org/public/en).  
> I also found [this blog](https://orthodoxandgay.com/) (about the experience of being gay in the Orthodox Church) useful and moving besides.


End file.
